


handle with care

by cedarmoons



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, But Still Attempting a Cohesive Story, Female Apprentice, Intensely Requited Love, Lucio Is An Asshole, Multi, Non-Chronological, Pre-Game Speculation, VERY AU as of Book X, no beta we post our first drafts like men, now rated E for spicy content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-03-24 23:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 114,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13821564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: They would set themselves ablaze to keep each other warm.





	1. the first masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! welcome!! this is going to be a oneshot series featuring my custom fem mc, ziah, and her various interactions with the arcana crew. the main romantic focus will be her and asra, though others (cough nadia cough) will make several appearances as well. 
> 
> the oneshots will be wildly non-chronological, but i am attempting to make this a cohesive story. sort of like a puzzle, if you will. each chapter will have pairings and warnings in the a/n before the oneshot.
> 
> if u want to see anything specific, i'm always taking prompts for the arcana on my tumblr @ cedarmoons.tumblr.com (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ
> 
> thanks, and enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> asra & ziah get off to a great start. :)
> 
> pairing: ziah & asra pregame  
> warnings: none

There is a sickness in this city. But it is as close to the ocean as she has yet found, since leaving the Scintillant Waste. Tiamat is a heavy weight across her shoulders, scales scratchy and dry, on the verge of flaking off. Her horns poke into the underside of Ziah’s chin as she lifts her head, examining the city-state of Vesuvia above them. What seems to be the centerpiece, a palace in the process of being built, sits on the highest point—the top of the cliff—while the rest of the city winds down, with the lowest parts of the city sitting next to the sea.

There are no outer walls: a verdant forest serves as a second natural barrier, ringing the city that is not shielded by cliffside. North lies a desert, more scrub than sand; south lies the steppes; east lies the Waste. An excellent strategic position, though dangerous if the city is ever faced with overwhelming numbers.

It unsettles her.

There is no outward ominous vision, and yet there is something stale in the air, something wrong, like water left to stagnate too long. She wants to label it _sickness,_ but she does not know enough to make a true determination.

“You sense it, too?” she asks. Tiamat’s exhale is raspy, dry in her ear.

_Yes. But the ocean is too close, and it has been too long. I cannot concentrate._

“You must stay strong for only a little while,” she says, and turns away from the city, taking a path through the hip-high grass that lines the foot-tread path. The heat is sweltering here, reminding her of northern climes, of _home_.

Still, she does not sweat: the memory of the Scintillant Waste’s oppressive, dry air still clings to her, as tightly wrapped as a cloak. Nothing could match the heat of the eastern desert, nor of its resident pyromage, Lina, whose very hair and eyes were made of flame, and who carried the stolen soul-piece of a desert wyvern in her breast.

When Ziah reaches the seaside, Tiamat sighs, longingly, and begins to slide off of her shoulders. Ziah catches her before she can fall into the beachsand, gathering her into her arms as she turns the ocean surface glassy. She walks a long way out and kneels above the still water, gently guiding Tiamat into the ocean.

The wyrm sighs once she is submerged, betraying her relief.

“I should have left you in the ocean,” Ziah murmurs. “You did not need to come with me to the Waste.”

_If I had not, you would be dead, impaled upon the Sand King’s pincers, or buried within the Hidden Hive, a feast for the zealot scarabs._

Ziah inhales, then lets her breath out slowly. Balance. “Perhaps,” she allows, knowing full well that she certainly _would_ have been killed by the Sand King had Tiamat not intervened, “but one can never know such things for certain.”

_Pah!_

Ziah cannot suppress her slight smile at that. “Am I not allowed my pride?”

 _Not with me, child._ Tiamat’s ancient voice rings with amusement. _We have known each other too long._

“Indeed.” She rises to her feet, shielding her eyes against the sun, and regards Vesuvia once more. “You will stay in the ocean and regain your strength. I will investigate this city and the sickness held within, and determine how serious it is.”

_And if it is serious?_

“Then we will find another city next to the ocean. Don’t sigh at me,” she says. Tiamat sighs at her anyway, and she nearly rolls her eyes. “I have no desire to become entangled in strangers’ ordeals. We will meet in a moon’s turn, on this beach.”

 _Very well. It shall be as you say._ Tiamat’s scales flash turquoise as they catch the light under the water, but soon all trace of her is gone, disappeared into the depths of the sea where she belongs.

Ziah exhales, brushing off invisible dirt from her pants. She walks over the sea, hands clasped behind her back, and pushes past her longing for the water once her sandaled feet rest upon pristine sands. She adjusts the scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders and looks back to the sea, closing her eyes when a salt breeze brushes over her face.

She allows herself to be drawn in by the ocean’s call, just slightly, the high tide lapping at her ankles. But then she finds her own strength and draws back, pushing the crash of the waves back until they are a distant sound, a hush against the shell of her ear.

Then she turns and begins the trek to this city-state of Vesuvia.

The first thing she notices about the city, once she passes through the forest-jungle, is the myriad underground rivers. She can feel the current of them, fresh water moving out to sea, deep underground. That is reassuring: should she have to, she will have ample means to defend herself.

Before she enters the city, she picks up a handful of pebbles and casts an illusion over them, turning them into a mixture of currencies. When she is certain they will suffice for any material concerns, she puts them in her messenger bag, charmed to hold a limitless quantity of items, and steps into this sickly city-state.

It does not take long to discover she has walked right into the slums. The houses seem tilted, built upon uneven, shifting ground; the wells are polluted, the canals used as sewers. The streets are dirt, not even cobblestone, and the air stinks of human waste. It is enough to make her consider turning back, and she has not even moved five paces into the city.

She squares her shoulders, adjusting her scarf to cover her mouth and nose, and continues on. She misses nothing: not the hungry children cowering in the shadows of alleys, nor the older orphans who watch her with cunning light in their eyes, nor the beggars who sit on street corners, only to be ignored by passers-by.

The first shop she sees has a hanging sign above the door: a serpent, wound across a mortar and pestle. The window is cracked and dirtied, but she is still able to see through it. There are shelves full of odd ingredients and apothecary remedies, and she can sense the magic within.

Another magician?

She has lived through the extinction of the dragons, the youngest and most numerous of the great serpent races, and witnessed magicians driven to the most remote places of the world by other humans fearful of their power. She has thought the use of magic a dying breed, in this new world full of steam-powered innovations and metal.

But if this magic shop is open, and functioning…

She opens the door and steps inside, flinching at the sound of a shrill copper bell ringing overhead. A plump, older woman with iron-grey hair is sewing behind a glass display jar, feeding bolts of cloth to the machine’s needle, foot on a pump to keep it working. She looks up at Ziah’s entrance, pushing half-moon spectacles up her nose. When her gaze lands on Ziah, her foot stops, and she goes still.

Ziah stays in the doorway, stepping forward only to close the door behind her. She lifts her hands and tugs the red silk scarf down from its hooded position, letting it rest over her shoulders only. The woman narrows her eyes, standing slowly and approaching her. She comes up to Ziah’s sternum, no higher. She puts her hands on her hips, eying Ziah critically.

“Never thought I’d see one of your kind, myself,” she says at last.

Ziah stares. “Beg pardon?”

“Bonded with one of the great serpents,” the woman clarifies. “As all great magicians are.”

Ziah keeps her expression neutral. “You have sharp eyes, stranger. And a keener sense than most.”

The woman watches her, then pushes her glasses up her nose. Then she sticks out her hand, and waits for Ziah to shake it. “Eleonora Todorovsky, of Nevivon,” she says, turning on her heel and returning to her sewing machine. “But folks call me Aunt El. I use my magic to help the women here. Mostly contraceptives or abortions, you see, but sometimes I do fertility spells for barren women. I also offer herbal remedies for common ills.” She returns to her sewing machine. “I keep my services cheap, you know. The folk in these parts don’t have anywhere else to go for these things.”

“I see.” Ziah approaches one of the display cases, hands clasped behind her back, and takes note of the various glass bottles—some for infection, or coughs, or common colds, more. There is a cluster of identical bottles near the end of the display, labelled as an anti-inflammatory for arthritis. Ziah rests her fingertip on the glass above them. “I would like one of those, if you please.”

Eleonora pauses her sewing and gets up, grabbing a small bolt of cloth. “It’s an ointment,” she says. “Joints? Mm… left hand?”

“Yes.”

Eleonora squints at Ziah’s left hand. Ziah resists the urge to hide it behind her back. What she had endured is no cause for shame.

After a moment, the old woman nods to herself, taking the vial from the display case and putting it in a small cloth drawstring bag. “Massage it into the skin for ten minutes,” she says, handing it over. “Don’t let it wash off, or it’ll undo all your work.”

Ziah nods, then rummages in her bag until she finds her coin purse. “How much?”

“Three Vesuvian silver dollars. I’ll take Galbradine dubloons, if you have it, or Hjallen drakr. Six and eleven respectively.”

Ziah gives a long-suffering look, but counts out the proper amount of coin, discarding the ones that are mere illusioned pebbles. Once she slides the coins over the glass, Eleonora gives her the small cloth bag that holds her purchase.

“How long are you staying in this city?” she asks, as Ziah puts it in her messenger bag.

“A mere moon’s turn. No longer.”

Eleonora smiles, the lines of her face shifting as she does so. “You have somewhere to stay?”

“Do you have recommendations?”

“Well, there’s plenty of inns. The Rowdy Raven, for one, or The Blustering Badger. Those are close to the docks. The closer you get to the square and the palace, more costly it’ll be.” Eleonora fixes her glasses again, and squints at her. After a moment, she reaches out, tapping a painted nail on a river pebble charmed to resemble an Aransi drachma. “Or, you teach me how to make rocks look like coin, and you can stay on my couch free of charge. I can set up a room in the back if you’d prefer that.”

Ziah stares at her. Eleonora stares back.

“What other magics do you know, then?” she asks. “Herbs? Potions? Curses?”

“I make soap,” Ziah says, slowly. Eleonora harrumphs, looking unimpressed. “And I was a midwife for many years. I know herbalism, yes, but not how to make these products.” She gestures to the vials, full of ointments and tonics and tinctures. “As for magic, I have traveled many places and learned many things.”

“Hmm. Well, I can teach you a few of my tricks. No harm done in that.”

“I am a stranger to you,” Ziah says. “You know not my intentions nor my purposes for being in this city. I have done nothing to prompt your kindnesses.”

“True,” Eleonora says. “But I’m old. I’ve lived a good life. And if you wanted to kill me, I suspect, you’d’ve done it by now.” When Ziah says nothing, she fixes her half-moon spectacles and offers her a wry smile, one that exaggerates the wrinkles that run in parallel lines all over her face. “I’ve never met a great magician before. This is like to be the only chance I get. Besides, my hips and knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Ah. So you want help.”

“Aye, and you need a place to stay. I’m to guess those pebble charms will run out soon, and then the innkeeps will kick you out for cheatin’ them, and then where will you be?”

There is no heat to Eleonora’s voice; steely eyes twinkle at Ziah beneath half-moon lenses. Ziah allows a slight smile that does not show her teeth, and inclines her head. “You will house me and teach me your craft, and in return I will assist you in your daily tasks. Is that the deal?”

“I also want stories,” she says. “What you’ve seen. Where you’ve gone. I miss travelling, I do.”

Ziah considers, then nods. “Then we have a deal,” she says.

Eleonora smiles.

—   —   —

On the moon’s turn, when they reconvene in the ocean, Tiamat reveals she has found a sunken city—and mer, mer who remember her legend and her ancient purpose. They will help her heal from the ravages of the Waste; they will help her regain lost power in a way she could never do on her own.

It is joyous news, but Ziah tastes sourness on her tongue. She does not want to stay in this city of poverty and sickness and shit, where red sometimes oozes from the buildings’ very walls, where the new Count wears charm and false sincerity like armor, hiding something darker—though she knows not what—underneath.

_You are quiet, child. What is on your mind?_

“I only think how fortuitous Vesuvia is, to have a sunken city so close,” Ziah says, mouth twisting.

Tiamat does not hesitate. _We need not stay here. There are other lands, other oceans, other sunken cities._

Ziah sighs, kneeling. The ocean water stays still, holding her weight, and she draws Tiamat’s full length out of the water, into her arms. Tiamat squirms in her arms until she is a manageable mass of dark blue coils, then leans against her chest. Ziah sits down, heedless of the sea water that soaks through her clothes. She leans down, humming an ancient song she only half-remembers, and strokes the long line of soft, bluish white hair that runs down the length of Tiamat’s back to her tufted tail. Tiamat purrs in pleasure, slickened scales rubbing smoothly against the skin of Ziah’s arms.

“But we have never found a sunken city,” Ziah says. “If it will mean your recovery, old friend, I am happy to stay here. You spent seventy years in the Waste for me—I will spend seventy years in Vesuvia for you.”

She will not be happy about it, but she will do it.

Tiamat lifts her head, bright blue eyes shining with magic. The sea breeze ruffles her mane, and salt spray shines on the pointed black horns that extend straight back from her head. A pointed tongue flicks out, once, and Tiamat lifts her head, resting her jaw atop Ziah’s head. Ziah closes her eyes and pulls Tiamat close, tightening her arms around the mass of her body, thinking back to when Tiamat had been so large Ziah’s arms could only span the front of her throat.

Perhaps that day would come again.

_Ah, child, I missed you this past moon._

“And I you,” she whispers back. Tiamat lifts her head and Ziah lowers her back to the ocean, gently, handling her with care. Once Tiamat is safely deposited in the water, Ziah rises to her feet. “I was staying with a magician in the city, who calls herself Aunt Eleonora. I will stay with her.”

_Good. Shall we meet in another moon’s turn?_

“Yes. Regain your strength. I will see you soon enough.”

Tiamat bumps her nose against Ziah’s, then returns to the ocean, scales catching the light before she disappears beneath the waves. Ziah stares at the water, then sinks down with a sigh, sitting in the sand and watching the tide come in.

She is here, in this city. For better or for worse. And now she can do nothing but continue on.

—   —   —

The navy jacket she wears is velvet, and far too hot for a Vesuvian midsummer night. Eleonora had fished them both from her children’s trunks, charmed to keep out moths and termites, and pronounced them wearable. “About twenty or so years out of date,” she’d proclaimed, “but no one pays attention to Nevivoni fashion anyway, so I reckon you’re safe. Though we will have to do something about your hair.”

Ziah lifts her hand to the back of her head, where Eleonora had managed to tame the entire length of her hair into a large bun, pinned and charmed to stay in place at the nape of her neck. She feels a stranger in her own skin, about to be thrown to the wolves.

She does not want to be here amongst this finery, surrounded by throngs of strangers eager to witness this new spectacle, dubbed the Masquerade by the newest count. If Tiamat had not so desperately needed the ocean’s power to restore her strength, she would have never stepped into this scarred city, with its rampant disease and poverty and sickly aura. But Tiamat is gone, recovering until the moon’s turn, and she has nothing left to do but wait for her return.

Two young girls, teenagers at the oldest, rush past her, giggling madly, and only then does Ziah realize she has been standing outside the scaffold-covered palace for the better part of five minutes. The music has already started: she can hear faint strands of violins and flutes, their notes floating on the air. Squaring her shoulders, she lifts her chin and walks into the palace.

The rooms, she finds, are full of people—commoners eager to see the luxuries of nobility. Many of the rooms are in the process of renovation, but the ones that are open bear all sorts of spectacles—acrobats, magicians, bubbles, things she has never seen before even when she was in court.

But it is the ballroom that is most crowded of all. Rich and poor alike mingle together, all faces in the crowd; those who could afford it had worn splendid masks, both animal and human, patterned with paint and inset with precious gems.

She approaches the banister, standing at the top of one of the great marble staircases, and leans over, eyes narrowing. The dancers are of the common and the aristocracy alike, but in the center of the room is a man who, she assumes, must be Lucio, newest Count of the city.

He is dancing with a beautiful purple-haired woman; the two of them draw all of her attention, despite the other couples on the floor. He is beautiful, she thinks, dressed in scarlet, gold, and white, his golden hair gleaming in the light of ten thousand candles.

Yet within him, she can sense the same sickness that permeates this city.

Another sign, though they have become unnecessary. With every passing hour, she grows more and more certain that she and Tiamat would be better suited to go north, or south, or _anywhere else_. Vesuvia is not the only city along the coast. If need be, she could simply build a cottage on the shore, and be left to her own devices. The thought is rather enticing.

She steps back from the banister just as Lucio lifts his head in her direction. She does not know if he sees her, but the hairs on her arms raise nonetheless. She takes another step backward, and several different people take her place before the banister, eager to see the dancers. She turns away, the ocean and the dancers’ racing heartbeats roaring in her ears, and leaves the ballroom.

She roams the halls, regarding various paintings—of the seaside, and hunted animals, and naked women above all—that hang on the beautiful walls. Many rooms are closed off by heavy green velvet drapes, behind which reveal rooms in the process of renovation, with blocks of stone littering the marble floors and air choked with white dust. Other rooms are full of intricate spectacles, shows and marvels and foods imported from across the continent.

Her path eventually takes her to the garden, where throngs of people have taken refuge from the heat of the night and the palace. As she descends the veranda steps, she lifts her gaze to the stars, splashed like individual diamonds across the sky. Then she lowers her gaze, to the gardens lit with hanging lanterns and fireflies alike, where couples stroll arm-in-arm and the night is alive with music.

She walks the marble pathways, winding around statues of caped men, all with the same faces, and finds herself in front of a fountain with a hippocampus in the center, spouting water from its mouth as more falls underneath its tail. A few feet away is a willow tree, its roots grown deep into the earth, all the way down to the underground rivers.

She sits on the lip of the fountain as fireworks light up the sky, and behind her—

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Behind her sits a youth with white hair, half his face hidden behind a beautifully painted wooden mask. He wears no costume, but a handful of masks are spread before him on a ragged blanket, and by his thigh is a small bag full of coin. He must have had a productive night, then. On his other side is another—well, it looks like a tablecloth, and it is stuffed full of the food she had seen in various rooms in the palace.

He is wiry, and small, with slender hands and thinner arms. A teenager, surely. She looks him over, and looks at the food he is now nudging behind him, and she puts the two together. The thought of one so young so hungry makes her lips press together into a thin line. She thinks, briefly, of giving him a coin or an enchanted pebble—before she realizes that she had left her pack at Aunt Eleonora’s shop, and she has nothing.

(Besides, it is not her place.)

“I suppose,” she says. “If you have a taste for extravagance. Which this city seems to have.”

The youth laughs. He gives her a smile she does not return. “Well, we’ve never had a—what’s he calling this?—a Masquerade. I think most people are here to see the new Count, you know, determine the rumors for themselves.”

“The rumors?” She waits, watching his brow crease in confusion, before clarifying, “I am a mere traveler. I have been in Vesuvia for a few days.”

“Oh! You have good timing, then. Yeah, um, well, we used to have an old Count a year ago—but then this one, Lucio, came along and challenged him to a duel. Shot his head off fifty paces away. I wasn’t there, but news spread quickly. People are still deciding whether Lucio’s a murderer or not.”

“And what is your opinion?”

He shrugs. “I don’t care. Nobles like Lucio don’t care about us, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“And who is ‘us’?”

He smiles, again. Again, she does not return it. “You ask a lot of questions,” he notes.

“I am curious.”

“The orphans,” he says. “The poor. My friend and I got lucky, we found a place to stay, but until I was sixteen I was living on the streets.”

“How old are you now?”

“Seventeen.”

Seventeen. So young.

She looks at the food again, then back to the youth. He clears his throat, spreading his hand out over the few masks he has left to sell. “I have masks, if you’re interested,” he says. “My friend carved them, and I painted them.”

She is not interested in a mask; she has no intention of ever returning to this place again. But he is hungry, and has been polite, so she only says, “I have no money.”

His face falls behind his mask, but he nods. “Okay,” he says, then smiles. “Wanna see a magic trick? I’m really good at them.”

She doubts it, but she nods. He pulling out ragged playing cards from a pocket sewn within his clothes. Many of them have tears, and their colors are faded, but the youth shuffles them with practiced ease. “Okay,” he says, as he is shuffling. “If I win, I get to ask you a question. Since I’ve answered so many of yours. If you win, you can ask me anything you want.”

“What counts as a win?”

“You haven’t played this before?” he asks, eyebrows arching over the mask. When she stares at him, he shrugs. “Right. Okay. So you’ll pick a card, and if I guess it correctly, I win. If I’m wrong, you win. Okay?”

“Easy enough. I accept your terms.”

“Haha, okay. Great.” He finishes shuffling and holds out the deck to her, spreading it out in an arc. Ziah lowers herself to sit before him, and pulls a card, hiding it in the palm of her hand. The Magician stares back at her, creases running across the card where it has been folded, his dye faded and worn.

“Remember your card, and then put it back.” She does, slipping it into a different spot than where she had pulled it. The youth begins to shuffle again. “Okay, so I’m gonna to pull three cards, okay? And I’m gonna ask you whether it’s your card. No matter what card it is, even if it’s yours, you have to say no. Okay?”

“I understand.”

“Great.” He pulls the first card, and asks whether it is hers. The Lovers stand hand-in-hand, their top corner missing. She shakes her head, and he puts it facedown on the blanket. The second card is the Tower, a sight that sends a chill down her spine, but she shakes her head nonetheless. The third card is the Star.

He puts the deck aside, steepling his fingers before him. “Okay,” he says. “Now I gotta guess which one was your card. Hmmm… I pick  _this_ one.”

He selects the card that had been the Tower and flips it.

The Magician stares up at her, arms crossed before him.

Ziah stares, mouth dropping open, and grabs the card to examine it. But there is no illusion—though the Magician is silent, it is truly his card. Somehow, he had swapped the Tower for the Magician. When she looks to the youth, he is grinning. His eyes are an odd shade, she thinks. A mix between blue and purple—almost indigo.  

“Was I right?” he asks, with the confidence of someone who already knows the answer.

“How did you do that.”

He winks. “A magician never tells his secrets.”

“You are no magician,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “This was some—some cheap sleight of hand.”

His smile falters, and then he shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But I still won, and I still get to ask you a question. Unless you’re chickening out?”

She begrudgingly sets the Magician back on his blanket, and he leans forward, brimming with eagerness. “Are you from Prakra? I’ve heard only Prakrans have blue hair, so I was wondering if you could tell me what it was like, my parents took me once but I don’t really remember—”

_Only Prakrans have blue hair._

She instinctively reaches for her illusion—which, yes, she had placed before entering the palace; her hair has been charmed black for the entirety of this conversation. This youth should not be able to see _through_ it, and yet…

She reinforces her magic, and he stops himself, blinking rapidly at her.

“I am not Prakran,” she says, coolly, “and my hair is black.”

She expects confusion. She expects an apology, or a backtrack.

She does not expect his face to light up—or for him to lean forward, eagerly, and whisper: “You’re a _magician?_ An actual one?” He laughs, and she sees dimples in his cheeks. “No wonder you got so mad.”

She stares at him.

“Anyway, my parents were magicians,” he continues, his excitement naked on his face despite the mask. “After they disappeared I’ve never met anyone else who could do magic, not _really_ , because my fortune teller friend isn’t a real magician, they just do that to eat, y’know? And I have some of my parents’ spellbooks, but a lot of it I don’t really know what to do with, because well it’s probably beyond me right now, but maybe _you_ could—”

“What is your name?” she asks him.

“Oh! Pfhahaha. I never told you, huh? Sorry. I’m Asra.”

She frowns, and he picks up the deck again, shuffling the cards. When he draws another card from the deck, it is, again, the Magician. “Whose deck is that?”

“Hm? Oh, one of my friends in the market. They let me practice with it sometimes, but I’m not very good with fortune-telling. I’m still learning that part. Magic tricks I can do, no problem.” He grins at her. “I’d like to make my own deck one day, but, y’know, I don’t have the money to spend on paints and stuff. Most of what we earn is spent on food or blankets.”

He shuffles and draws again; again, he pulls the Magician.

Ziah stands, taking a step back. His face falls. “Wait, I’m sorry, please don’t go! I don’t—I’m not—I just got excited. Didn’t mean to scare you. Could you stay, please? Or maybe,” he says, and begins to gather up his display, “If you want to keep walking around the masquerade, I can go with you and we can keep talking about magic?”

“No,” she says, and turns away.

“Wait!” he calls. “Wait, miss, I didn’t get your name!”

She stops just for an instant, looking at him over her shoulder.

“No,” she tells him. “You did not.”

When she leaves the garden, he does not follow, and she returns to the chaos of the first masquerade with a racing heart.


	2. coliseum, i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: mc/asra  
> warnings: depictions of gladiatorial combat & violence, brief depiction of violent intrusive thought(s)

The customer withdraws an engraved emerald ring from his finger and drops it into Ziah’s outstretched palm. His mistress clings to his side, wide-eyed and fearful, as so many are when they come to her for this. “A treasured gift from my wife,” the merchant says. “Surely this will suffice.”

Ziah curls her fingers around the ring, holding it up for inspection. A breeze rustles her sweat-soaked hair, and she reaches out, feeling for the energies contained within the ring. In the brief silence that follows his proclamation, she listens to both of their heartbeats, to the rush of water that runs under all of their feet in rivers hidden deep underground.

The man’s heartbeat is faster than his mistress’s, nervous. Interesting.

 _Will you suffice, truly?_ she asks it. _I wonder._

 _I have little worth_ , the ring whispers to her, in impressions and images. She sees it lovingly selected from a variety of valuable baubles by an unremarkable but kind woman, then presented to the merchant in a beautiful painted box, who leaves it to tarnish in the darkness of an unused dresser for years and years. _He does not value me. But you might._

It is true. She has precious few emeralds. Perhaps it would suffice better as a talisman, or a necklace, rather than a ring. At her thought, the energies swirling within the ring wash over her once again, like water, conveying its satisfaction.

Ziah lowers the ring and looks at both mistress and merchant. “Return at sunset,” she instructs. “No earlier, no later. You may come alone, should you wish. I shall do as you ask then.” The woman swallows, and the merchant smiles and pats her hand. He wears a placid mask, though his racing heartbeat—settling, now, in relief—betrays the pristine image of calm.

The door opens just as the couple turns to leave, bringing with it the stench of the canals and the sea breeze. The windchimes ring, and the wind caresses her temples, cooling the sweat gathered there, though it does nothing for the places where her braid sticks to her back. It is sweltering hot today, even for the dry season, and though every window in the house is open, the heat has not yet broken. On days like this, she regrets keeping her hair so long.

Asra steps through, his eyes on her, never sparing a glance for the couple. Faust is curled tight around his forearm, barely large enough to span the length of it. Her tongue flickers rapidly, radiating urgency and alarm. Ziah straightens, eyebrows raising. Asra waits for the customers to leave, then walks up to her and leans on the display case, eyes wide and fingers spread far over the glass, his fingers leaving foggy imprints behind. His chest is heaving with his shallow breaths, face flushed and sweaty, and she can hear how hard and how fast his heart pounds in his throat—had he run here?

“He took Muriel,” he gasps.

Ziah unscrews the cap of the tin tied to her waist and pulls some cool water from it, directing it to press against his forehead and cheeks. “Who?” she asks, mildly.

“Lucio,” Asra says, still trying to catch his breath. “He took Muriel to the Coliseum. He’s going to force him to fight. You have to— _we_ have to get him back. We have to.”

Ziah pulls the water away, spins it into silk-thin strands and returns it to her tin. Already, she can feel the old anxiety building in her stomach: sickening anticipation, awaiting punishment from a woman centuries gone. She flexes her left hand at her side, the knuckles throbbing with a phantom pain at the journey of her thoughts.

“What shall I do, Asra?” she asks. “Shall I go to the palace and demand Muriel’s release, with naught but my soaps and my contraceptives as my weapons?”

No. It is not her place. She knows this, but it does not keep her back from aching with dull pain.

“I _know_ there are things you haven’t taught me,” Asra says, rounding the display case and stopping in front of her, resting one hand on the glass. “I know you have more power than you’ve shown me. I know you can control fire just as well as you can control water, and you can turn water to ice, even though you’ve tried to hide that from me.” 

She turns away, hiding her slight, pained smile. So bright, so _clever_ , her young apprentice. Has it truly been only six years they have known each other? It seems so much longer. 

Asra leans forward, trying to catch her eye, desperate. “So, use that. You can freeze anyone who tries to stop you, and Muriel can get out, go somewhere safe. _Please_ , Mizi.”

She raises her head, looking him in the eye. “No.”

Asra’s shock encroaches slowly. He watches her, lips parted, and does not move. But soon, as the reality of her refusal sinks in, Faust curls tighter around his forearm, her urgency swiftly changing to distress. 

Ziah steps around him, walking to the saltwater fountain. Tiamat is already waiting, her misty form solidifying into something tangible as Ziah holds out her hands. Tiamat moves forward, her coiled body filling Ziah’s cupped palms. She slides up Ziah’s arm, leaving a wet trail on her bare skin, and curls in a half-loop around her shoulders, blessedly cool against the heat of the day. Ziah reaches up, stroking each of Tiamat’s smooth, pointed black horns, then the soft bluish white hair between them that runs down the length of her back.

Asra has not turned. One hand rests by his side, and the other is curled into a tight ball atop the display case. Beside her, the water trembles in its scrying bowl. She calms it with a gesture, keeping her gaze on the tight lines of his shoulders.

“ _Why_ ,” Asra finally says, and it is a demand, not a plea. His eyes are purple fire when he lifts his head, turning to stare at her, jaw clenched. Ziah stares back, unbowed.

“It is not my place,” she says. Tiamat sighs in her ear, knowing the source of this hard-earned lesson; Ziah ignores her. “It is not my responsibility to correct every wrong in the world because I may or may not have the power to do so.”

“Why not?” he asks. “What’s the difference between helping Muriel and helping the poor who live in these slums?”

She knows the answer to his question: there is no risk in helping the poor. There is no chance of putting herself in danger. Were it not so, she would do nothing, for it is not her place. She knows this, and yet, at the look on Asra’s face, shame prickles hot in the back of her throat. She has not felt shame for keeping to this lesson since her girlhood. 

Her left hand is throbbing, now, the knuckles aching dully. An old pain, never quite healed, but it has not acted up like this in years upon years. She will have to massage her hand later. 

“Because then I would never be able to stop,” she replies. “Where does one draw the line, Asra?”

He does not answer, and they stare at each other. She watches the hope in his eyes flicker and fade, watches despair replace it, then a swift, sparking anger. His eyes narrow, something cold settling over him as he straightens. “I never thought you were a coward,” he tells her, and it takes everything within her to hide her flinch.

“Think of me what you will,” she says, “it shall not change my mind. Do not ask me again.”

Asra stares at her, jaw clenched, and then leaves without a word, Faust staring at her disapprovingly over his shoulder as he goes. Once he is gone, windchimes ringing in the aftermath of his swift departure, she exhales, her shoulders sagging.

Tiamat rests her head on Ziah’s collar, and Ziah lifts her left hand, pressing her fingertips to Tiamat’s snout. Her left hand feels stiff, and moving her fingers is painful. 

_You know my thoughts_ , Tiamat says. Ziah nods. _You know that Lucio forces children to fight for his amusement. They have no choice in the matter. They are slaves._

Ziah’s stomach knots itself, and nausea rocks through her. She goes into the backroom and sits on the velvet stool, tucking her shaking hands between her knees as she stares at the garden outside. “It is not my place.”

_Perhaps when you were a girl. But that lesson can be unlearned, and that pain can be forgotten. You know this._

Ziah takes a deep breath, reaching up with her right hand and feeling her braid. Much of it has come undone, curling and frizzy in the heat. She lowers her hand, feeling the world untethering around her, becoming light, floating, like drifting on the ocean waves. All around her, she can hear heartbeats, the rush of blood within bodies, and below everything, the call of the ocean, almost overwhelming. She almost stands, almost follows the call straight to the docks, but keeps herself in check.

Ziah closes her eyes and breathes, feeling the drag of air in her lungs, spreading through her body. She focuses on the sound of it, whistling through her nose, focuses on the rise and fall of her shoulders and stomach. Tiamat presses her snout to Ziah’s neck, right against her pulse point. After a moment, cool, soothing magic washes over her, erasing the dull aches in her hand and back.

“You did not need to do that,” Ziah whispers.

_Yes, I did._

Ziah cannot bring herself to argue. She flexes her left hand, expecting pain and feeling only its ghost. With a sigh, she stands, and moves upstairs, taking care to light her jasmine incense before she gathers the ashes from the stove, a vase full of water, and her charmed goat’s milk. 

The house will reek of lye and jasmine soon enough.

— — —

Asra returns after nightfall, when her eighth batch of soap—lavender and honey, this time—is setting and the mistress has already departed. Ziah is washing the blood from the bedsheets when he steps out into the garden, wreathed in lamplight. He settles beside her, his knee brushing hers, and helps her wring out the sheet. If he smells the rue and myrrh on her hands, he does not comment. These had been among his first experiences by her side.

She leans toward him, smelling the damp and chill of the caves outside of Vesuvia. He is not wet, but the scent clings to him nonetheless. He must have been practicing all day.

“Eight batches?” he says. “I’ve never seen you make more than three.”

“It is calming,” she replies, letting the water run over her hands, washing away the blood that stains her skin. Asra does not reply, focusing instead on helping her clean the sheets.

“You really won’t help me?” he asks, once the bedsheet is clean and powder-blue once more, once he has helped her drape it over the drying line. Faust pokes her head from under his open shirt collar, looking plaintive.

“No,” she says. “It is not my place.”

He sighs, jaw clenching. He’s calmed, a little, though he still does not look pleased. She cannot blame him. His love for her has too long blinded him to her flaws. It is good that he is learning this lesson, that one can never rely fully upon others. It is. Even if his soft heart will emerge from it hardened and scarred.

 _No_ , she thinks, immediately self-reproachful of the intrusive thought. _I do not want him like that, never. Let him stay soft. Let his heart stay gentle._

“Then I’ll get him out on my own,” Asra says, drawing her from her thoughts. “I’ll get him out, with or without your help.”

Ziah stands, gathering the dripping sheets in her arm. She pauses just long enough to wick the water from the cotton, depositing the excess in her washbowl with a gesture. Then she leans down, squeezing Asra’s shoulder. “I will return shortly,” she says. She dumps the sheets onto her hammock, already laden with clean laundry that smells of eucalyptus and lemon, and checks the window, to see Asra bending the water, running it between his fingers and around his waist with all the grace of a master, even if sometimes she sees some parts of the water give way to splash upon the ground.

She goes downstairs to the second level, taking a deep breath before she grips the base of the phonograph and casts a charm to lighten its weight. When she pulls it forward, it moves easily, as smoothly as skates across a frozen pond. She does the same with the potted plants that surround it, until the cut frame of a door is visible against the wooden wainscoting and wallpaper. She lifts her hand, waiting for a sigil to glow white under the wallpaper before whispering the passcode. When the sigil fades, she lowers her hand, stepping through as the door slides into a thin opening in the wood, revealing open space behind it.

The niche is not very large; perhaps two people can fit inside. It had been a closet, before this house became hers, and it is here that she keeps her past locked away. She ignores everything inside the niche except the carved chest pushed at the very end of the room. She kneels before it, and the same sigil of protection glows atop its lid. After a moment, as it senses her presence and her blood, the latch clicks open.

She opens it, and pulls from it the thickest of her grimoires. A clouded ruby sits in the middle of the purple velvet-bound book, the red so dark it is nearly black. The pages are old, thin, fragile, but the ink is as dark as if she had written in it yesterday. She carefully searches through the pages, reviewing curses she has learned and invented and modified, indices of silent poisons and deadly plants, and… she flips to the last few pages and stops, going very still.

She had forgotten she had written this down.

The spell before her is complex, far too complex for a magician of Asra’s level, and requires the most powerful of magical ingredients—human blood and bone and hearts. A spell she has only used once, in the darkest time of her life, and never invoked again. The invocation of beings more powerful than even Tiamat at her apex is a great and terrible knowledge, one she will never allow Asra to possess.

Never.

She carefully smoothes the palm of her hand down the fragile page, and the ink blurs and fades into the yellowed parchment, as if it had never been written down. She can still feel the energies within the page, their whispers and promises of power far too tempting for her liking, but Asra is not yet strong enough enough to see the ruse in her illusion, let alone hear the spell’s temptations.

When she is satisfied that her magic leaves no trace of that spell—and, most importantly, no trace of her magic concealing it—she closes the book and leaves the niche. After closing the door and returning every moved piece of furniture, she goes to the nearest window and looks outside, watching Asra practice unfreezing and refreezing the water that hovers between his hands. He looks up as if he can sense her gaze, and in his distraction, the water immediately unfreezes, splashing upon the ground at his feet.

Yes. He still has much to learn.

 _I could kill him so easily_ , she thinks.

At once, she steps back from the window, shaking her head slightly, as if that will rid her of the intrusive thought. She had vowed to herself never to take another life, her vow consecrated in saltwater and blood, and she would never harm him. She would never do to him what was done to her. And the very fact that these thoughts—thoughts of not only hurting others, but of doing irrational things like throw herself from a gondola as it is gliding through the canals—continue to happen, however infrequently, is infuriating.

 _Breathe, child_ , Tiamat urges from her fountain downstairs, her voice still thick with sleep.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She inhales again, exhales, and thinks: _Balance._ In all things, there must be balance.

 _Good_ , Tiamat says, drowsy. When Ziah reaches out for her, she finds that the wyrm has fallen asleep once more. Tiamat stirs at the brush of her magic, but Ziah sends a wave of reassurance, lulling her back to the deep slumber that best restores her strength. Holding the grimoire close to her chest, Ziah returns to the garden.

Asra hears her approach—he has become good at listening over the years, and for that, she is proud of him—and he turns to face her, the arc of water around him dropping to splash upon the ground at his feet. His eyes flit down to the grimoire in her arms, and interest sharpens his gaze. He has read her grimoires, memorized nearly every one, and novelty intrigues him.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Come,” she bids. “We will have dinner, and then I shall tell you.”

She places the grimoire on the table upstairs, tells him not to open it, and sets to work preparing dinner—chau meing, tonight. As she adds the broccoli and red onions, stirring, Asra says, “Why is the ruby black?”

“It has not been cleansed in some time,” she says. Asra hums. She glances over her shoulder, and sees him staring at it, slowly dragging his fingertips down the velvet cover. She turns back to the pot, stirring in shrimp and beans and garlic and other vegetables. Finally, she adds a sweet sauce, stirring well until the noodles are stained red-orange. 

Asra looks up from the grimoire only when she sets his bowl and a pair of chopsticks before him. He watches her carefully, waiting, but she says nothing. Only when her bowl is half-empty does she finally speak. “It is a grimoire of the shadowed path.”

“Black magic?” he asks through a mouthful of noodles.

“Nothing so simple. Do not fall prey to the trap of equating black with evil and white with good. Both the sun and the moon’s light allows us to see, only in different ways. The shadowed path, in this case, is the sun: more powerful, and thus more harmful.”

“Harmful, how?”

“In all things, there must be balance. You know this,” she says. Asra nods, cautious, eyes narrowed. He is listening. Good. “The shadowed path risks upsetting the balance between life and death, between self and other. It risks attracting attention from the other realm; and once that attention is stirred, once a creature from the other realm passes into this one, it is very difficult to expunge them from here. Do you understand?”

Asra nods, but distantly. His gaze had moved back to the grimoire while she spoke. Once silence falls between them, he reaches for the cover, grasping the corner of it between thumb and forefinger. She drops her chopsticks and leans forward, seizing his wrist, her thumbnail digging into his skin. Asra gasps, gaze tearing from the book to her face, eyes wide.

“Do not be careless with yourself,” she says, holding his gaze. “Do not be reckless when faced with the temptation of new knowledge.”

Asra opens his mouth, but she will not hear his protests. She lifts her other hand, her left hand, and cups his cheek. He goes still at once, eyes widening. It is cruel of her, using his love against him, but if it will keep him safe—in this, to ensure his safety, she will be cruel. “Asra, you may open this book, you may devour every word, you may memorize every spell, but not until the worst hour of your worst day. Not until the softness of your heart has hardened to stone, not until your sweetness turns sour in your mouth, not until you are truly crushed and beaten, and you have no recourse left. For once you turn upon this path, there is no escaping it. You may run, you may regret, but you may never go back. Do you understand?”

“Mizi.” Asra’s voice is hushed, and yet it seems to echo around them.

“Do you understand?” she cuts in, a tinge of desperation in her voice. He must know, he must _understand_ , and she prays he will never have cause to open this grimoire.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you will not open this until then.”

“I—okay. I promise.”

She exhales, lifting her right hand to his face, her palms cupping his cheeks. She listens to the wild hammering of his heart, senses the water within his blood, and closes her eyes, leaning over the table to rest her brow against his. Asra swallows. Her thumbs stroke his cheekbones, and a shiver runs through his shoulders: a touch she, selfishly, seeks out for herself. It is unconscionably cruel, this intimacy, for he loves her, and she cannot let herself love him.

“Good,” she tells him, in a hushed whisper. She pulls her hands away and sits back, squaring her shoulders. They finish their meals, and as she gathers the dishes and brings them to the tap, she hears the wooden floors creak. The stairs groan under Asra’s gait, and she listens to him move around upstairs for a few moments before glancing over her shoulder. The grimoire is missing from the table.

When he returns, the dishes have been cleared away, and she has set out two cups of lapsang souchong. A wordless apology. Asra smiles, but there is something tight, tucked away in the corners of his mouth. Wary, still. Ziah watches him but holds her tongue.

“I put it in the basket with the other grimoires, at the very bottom,” he says. “Knowing me, I’ll probably forget about it in two days. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

He will not forget; he has the best memory of anyone she has ever known. But it is meant as a comfort, one she accepts. 

Ziah says nothing until she finishes her cup of lapsang souchong and pours herself another. After a long pause spent in silence, she says, “If you wish to free Muriel—do not look at me like that, Asra, my mind has not changed, and this is all I will do for you. If you wish to free Muriel, you _must_ improve your control over water and your illusion magic. To go to the Coliseum unprepared can only result in disaster for you both.”

“I know,” Asra says. “But if you would teach me how to use water as a weapon—”

“Never,” she says, flatly.

“All you’ve taught me about bending water is how to heal with it,” Asra says. “Which is great. I’m thankful for that. But that’s not going to help me get Muriel out of that place, and you clearly think that what I’ve done hasn’t been enough. So _teach_ me. _Please_.”

Her back and left hand ache. “I will not,” she says. “It is not my place, Asra, as I have said before. I bid you do not ask me again.” 

Frustration glints in his eyes and he looks away, jaw clenched. “Fine,” he says, with an embittered shrug of his shoulders. “Illusions and water. Fine.”

She can say nothing to that, and so she keeps her silence, drinking her tea.

— — —

Asra trains his magic for six months. He reads her grimoires excessively, all except the one bound in purple velvet; he practices drawing sigils, recreating the majority of them perfectly, never once needing to look at a reference. He trains his control over water and, though it is nothing to hers, it is also nothing to scoff at, either. He slips into the market wearing different faces, and reports success with the pedestrians in the city, though she can see through his disguises every time.

All the while, Muriel’s legend grows; Lucio nicknames him the Scourge of the South, as if he is some wild warrior from the southern tribes, a trophy warrior to be displayed for the Count’s ego, instead of a civilian he had abducted from the streets. He wins every fight; his opponents are always executed when they are flat on their back and defenseless before him. 

Ziah and Asra go to one match, which the Sunday plaza crier had proclaimed to be the best match for the Scourge yet—a warrior of the southern steppes, as large as Muriel himself and more skilled in battle. They would face each other, and, simultaneously, face two lions that had been starved for a week.

During the match, Asra bites every one of his fingernails to the quick, and does not seem to notice the blood pooling around his cuticles. It is a long, evenly matched fight. At some point, Faust peeks her head out from one of his sleeves and immediately retreats, hiding within the safety of his shirt.

Ziah watches the southern warrior knock Muriel flat on his back and heft his sword over his head. Asra chokes back a scream and surges forward, though they are in the stands, a thousand feet away; Ziah grabs him before he can rouse the ire of the other match attendees. He leans against her, his hands covering his face. “I can’t look,” he whispers, shoulders hunching. “I can’t, I can’t—”

The warrior brings down his sword. Ziah watches Muriel catch the blade between his bare palms, stopping it before it buries inside his chest. She squeezes Asra’s arms. “He’s all right,” she whispers. “He’s all right.”

Asra sags against her but does not pull his hands away.

The remaining lion—the other had been gutted, given a good death by Muriel’s opponent—had leapt upon the opponent, then, and given Muriel an opening he needs. Soon, the other lion is dead, and the opponent is disarmed and pinned beneath Muriel’s foot. Ziah looks to Lucio the same moment Muriel does; the Count is sitting back in his red velvet-lined box, nearly lounging, and though she cannot see his face, she can see him give a thumbs down. A wave of boos follows his decision, though the reaction seems to be more about Muriel winning another match than Lucio condemning the warrior to death.

Muriel hesitates, and Lucio shouts out something Ziah cannot hear. Whatever it had been, Muriel can hear it clearly; he steels himself and buries his axe into his opponent’s chest. She watches Lucio sit back in his box, and faintly hears his laughter.

A grisly death, and one Muriel’s opponent did not deserve.

A brine merchant beside them shouts insults at Muriel; Asra tenses and finally looks up, hands curling into fists, and Ziah grips his wrist. He clenches his jaw, meeting her eye, and she shakes her head, slightly. Asra swallows and looks forward, though he doesn’t relax. 

After the execution, Muriel kneels in the dirt, before Lucio’s box. The entire Coliseum goes silent as Lucio rises. When Lucio speaks, his voice somehow echoes throughout the Coliseum.

“Congratulations, Scourge! Another victory, well-deserved. But I have to say, I _am_ a bit put out that you dispatched of him so easily. I’ll have to find something—or someone—who’ll give you a _real_ fight one of these days.” She cannot see the Count’s grin this far away, but she can hear it in his voice. A cold shudder of disgust runs through her.

Asra trembles beside her. Ziah curls her fingers over his inner wrist, her thumb pressing against his knuckles. After a moment, he turns his hand, interlacing their fingers and gripping tight. Her knuckles burn, screaming in protest, but she swallows her wince and lets him hold her hand. 

Lucio is still speaking, but she has long since stopped paying attention. Eventually, Muriel is permitted to rise from his kneeling position, and someone comes from one of the hidden niches carved into the ground-level wall, crowning him in golden laurels. A hollow symbol, she thinks: golden laurels, the crowns of Aransi gods, do not belong on a man who also wears manacles and an iron collar.

The sight stirs an ancient anger inside of her, hot in her throat. She swallows it down. That past is past, and those shades cannot haunt her any longer.

They leave quietly with the rest of the crowd. Though the others around them are jubilant, frenzied with the excitement of watching the match, Asra is silent. He moves to her right side, taking her hand in his and intertwining their fingers. He grips them, almost painfully, a pain that would have been exacerbated had he held her left instead. Ziah runs her thumb over his knuckles.

“I thought he was going to die,” Asra admits. He looks ashen, waxy. “I feel… can we sit down for a little bit?”

They find a quiet place. He puts his head between his knees and breathes thrice, deeply, as Faust slides out from her hiding place and curls around his shoulders, radiating comfort. Ziah murmurs encouragements to him, her palm steady and warm on the center of his curved back, so bowed she can feel the vertebrae of his spine. 

“I thought he was going to _die_ , Ziah,” he says again, voice muffled. She hears him swallow, thickly, the sound almost muted by the frantic race of his heart. “I’ve never… _fuck_.”

“How many of his matches have you been to?”

“All of them,” Asra admits. “His next one’s in two days.”

Ziah stares across the clearing that serves as the entrance to the Coliseum. Vendors are shouting at match-goers, trying to get them to stop and look at their wares, all of which are related somehow to the Scourge, or other popular gladiators. One woman sells blankets woven in black and green and scarlet, the Scourge’s fighting colors; another sells juice he claims is just like the juice the Scourge drinks for breakfast every day.

She wants to scream at the vendors, shake them until they realize that another’s suffering should never be a source of profit. She wants to destroy the stands, rend the blankets, until all that is left is mud and splintered wood and ruin. Her anger is hot in her throat, tunneling her vision, until she closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

 _It is not my place_ , she thinks. Her hands eventually stop trembling, replaced with pain throbbing in her back and in her left hand. She turns to Asra, instead. “When you feel able, let us return to the shop,” she bids. Asra nods, but doesn’t lift his head until long after the crowd has cleared away. Then, and only then, does he let her take him back to the shop.

He doesn’t say anything the entire walk back; she respects his silence. She makes dinner while he is reading over illusions and sigils one last time, and he eats quickly, scarfing everything down and returning to his studies. When she tells him she is retiring, he goes with her and brings his grimoire. As she changes into a nightdress, she emerges from behind the divider to see him in the hammock, a gentle light glowing over his shoulder despite the warm orange light of the gas lamp.

Ziah sighs through her nose and sits at her vanity, beginning the nightly process of undoing her braid. Halfway through, Asra shuts the book and climbs out of the hammock, leaving it swinging behind him. Faust lifts her head from her pillow, one red eye open, but quickly loses interest and falls back asleep. Ziah watches their reflections as Asra settles behind her, gently nudging her hands away and taking on the task of undoing her braid himself.

It is a small intimacy he has withheld from her since their fight six months ago.

He does not look at her reflection as he so often has before; his eyes are narrowed, gaze intent and focused on the task before him. She watches as he leans forward, reaching around her for her brush, and sits upright once more, running the brush through her long hair. When that is done, he stands and returns the brush to the vanity surface, then gets back into the hammock and resumes his reading.

He had not spoken a word the entire time.

Such silence is uncharacteristic of him, but she cannot blame him. Ziah stares at her reflection for a few moments before she stands, going downstairs into the kitchen, a conjured witchlight following her, bobbing over her shoulder. She rifles through the cabinets until she finds an appropriately sized teacup and a teaspoon, then returns to the attic. Asra looks up, glancing over her, gaze lingering on the teacup in her hands before he shifts and returns to his book.

She sets the teacup on an end table, rifling through it until she finds a small vial of sacred salt water and a pouch of powdered dragonlily ink. In silence, she mixes the two together, stirring with the spoon occasionally, until the two begin to bind together, forming a thick, shining black liquid. When it is done, and black ripples lap against the edge of the teacup, she lifts it, cradling it between her hands.

“Asra,” she says.

“Hm?”

“Stand, please. This is important.”

Asra closes the grimoire at once and looks up at her, a crease between his brows. It softens into something somber when he sees her, and in silence he stands up, leaving the hammock behind. Ziah takes a breath. 

“You are angry at me,” she tells him. He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head, shushing him. “I understand. I do not begrudge you that. You have asked for my help; this is it.”

“What do I do?” he asks. “What is that?”

“This is dragonlily ink,” she says. “Sacred to me, and the most powerful protection I know. But it must be applied to skin to take effect.” Her exhale shakes. “It is all I can offer you, Asra. I’m sorry.”

Asra’s expression is difficult to read, but after a long moment he nods and takes off his shirt, leaving him bare in the orange-gold lamplight before her. She has seen him shirtless many times over the six years they have known each other, but it is this moment, strangely, that feels the most intimate. There is a tightness in her chest that she cannot explain, and the whole world feels slow, syrupy.

All that matters is him, in this moment. All the world is him.

“You may feel a cool tingling,” she says, waiting for him to nod before stepping forward, half an arm’s length away.

Ziah dips her fingers into the ink, up to the second knuckle. She keeps her eyes on his body, starting first with the soft skin of his belly. She can feel the intensity of his gaze on her face, but she never looks up from her work. These patterns are ancient, ancient things, half-remembered from childhood, when she had helped the other acolytes and priestesses draw them upon their hunters, to protect them from boars and fauns and other creatures lurking in the jungles around their village. But as she draws sigils and runes of protection, trailing her fingers over the planes of his chest, dipping them into the shallow divots of his collarbones, the forms begin to take shape—they are no longer fleeting ghosts, but slowly solidifying into memories that had never been truly forgotten.

“I’m not angry,” Asra eventually says, as she draws spiraling sigils and long, sweeping lines over his arm. “Not anymore. But I have to help him, Mizi. I _have_ to. He’s my best friend. I won’t abandon him.”

“I know,” she says. “And I am so proud of you for that, Asra. Incredibly proud.”

He swallows. She dips her fingers into the ink once more, channeling her magic as she paints his other shoulder. Slowly, the lines of black begin to light up, casting blue-and-white light over the both of them. The light spreads from the curve of his shoulder to curl down his chest, like a wave of flowers blooming, like ink that spreads to cover the surface of a bowl of water.

Asra shivers. “Not too cold?” she asks.

“No,” he assures her. His eyes have not left her face, a fact she is acutely aware of as she draws her fingers down his arms—first his biceps, then the soft skin of his inner elbows, then his inner wrists. Lines of magic shift at her will, making room for more sigils, complex combinations of intent that protect him from as many variants of harm as she can envision. All the while, the light of her magic on him grows and grows, until he extinguishes the gas lamp and they are both bathed in bluish white light.

She gently draws him forward and circles him, moving on to the muscles of his back, the curves of his shoulder blades and the dip of his spine. Her fingertips brush against the gentle slope of his waist and he shivers, twitching away from her with a huffed laugh, one she does not share. She paints sigils between a triangle of freckles under his scapula, draws a line from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his skull, the paint staining the soft hairs at the back of his neck. She scoops up every last bit of the ink, wetting it with her saliva when the excess dries on her fingers, and even when he is covered in sigils she is not satisfied.

She rounds him again, coming to a stop and eying him critically—for any sigils she might shift over his skin, to make room for additional protections, or any free space she might have missed. Before she can make a decision whether to add more, though, Asra takes the teacup—empty, now, of everything but dried and cracked ink—and sets it on the nearby dresser. Ziah lifts her eyes to his face, breath catching when she sees he is watching her just as intently as he had been for the past hour. The brightness of the protections has dimmed, a little, bathing them in a soft bluish-white glow that reminds her of the caves outside Vesuvia.

“And now,” she whispers, more hoarsely than expected, “I have done all I can for you. I am sorry I could not do more.”

Asra swallows, and she finds herself watching the bob of his throat, before meeting his eyes once again. His gaze darts down to her lips, and she feels her mouth go dry, feels her heart begin to pound between her ribs. He swallows again, and he lifts his hands, cupping her face between them. When he looks at her again, his lepidolite eyes reflect stars of white and pale blue from the lines of magic that wind around his body, and he has never looked so beautiful.

She is unprepared for his kiss. It is gentle, tentative, and it destroys her utterly. She hears herself gasp against his mouth, a soft, slight inhale that betrays her surprise.

She cannot remember the last time she has been kissed.

His smile curves against her mouth and she lets her eyes flutter shut, lets herself lose herself in the pressure of his mouth resting against hers. After a moment, his lips move, curving around her bottom lip and sucking gently; he presses closer, the tip of his nose brushing against her cheek, his mouth moulding more firmly against hers, still soft but no longer hesitant. His thumbs stroke her cheeks. It makes her think of petals, and moths’ wings, and summer sunlight’s warmth.

“Thank you,” he breathes against her mouth, each syllable brushing their lips together, each word its own kiss that makes her breath catch and her heart flip. When he pulls away, she feels his absence keenly, a gaping hole in the center of her chest that only he can fill. She feels raw, exposed, utterly shaken by how gently he had touched her. 

“You know, I’ve waited years to do that,” Asra admits, with a soft smile. Ziah can only stare at him, wide-eyed, and his smile falters, his hands lowering. “I—was that okay? I didn’t… should I have asked first?”

That breaks the spell he holds over her. She huffs a laugh through her nose, smiling slightly, and catches his hands, bringing them to her mouth so she can kiss his knuckles. “I was only… surprised,” she tells him. “But it was not unwelcome, no.”

His expression softens in relief. She swallows, kisses his hands again.

“Promise me,” she starts, but her voice is hoarse, so she must clear her throat and try again. “Promise me you will be careful. Promise me you will be safe, and you will return to me, hale and whole.”

“Always,” Asra vows. “No one will even know I’m there.”

She holds his gaze, but he carries an easy confidence that had not been there before. He smiles slightly, pulling one hand free to stroke her cheek. She closes her eyes despite herself, leaning into his touch in a way she would have never allowed herself to do before tonight. He has always been generous with his touch, a brimming wellspring of affection; though she should not, though she _knows_ she should not, she wants to kneel by its bubbling brook, and drink and drink until the drought within her is eased. She wants that so desperately it is a physical ache.

“Besides,” Asra says. “I have you to come home to.”

She feels her expression crumble for an instant before she remasters herself. She blinks down at him, instead, and gently pulls both of his hands down to his sides, brushing her thumbs over his knuckles. His markings have faded, have shed their excess power, and lie hidden underneath his skin. Any who dare touch him would live to regret it.

“So you do,” she says, quietly.

Asra pulls back, starts to put his shirt back on, and she cannot keep herself from watching the muscles in his back flex as he moves. She pulls a shawl from the floor and drapes it around herself, chest tight, full of some nameless dread whose origin she cannot place. He rouses Faust, gently pulling her half-limp form from her pillow, guiding her to drape herself over his shoulders instead.

Ziah accompanies him downstairs, a witchlight hovering over both their shoulders. When she reaches for Tiamat, she finds her sleeping, drawing strength from the saltwater, and so leaves her be. Asra steps out into the street, then stops and turns around, quickly closing the distance between them to kiss her cheek. Her heart flutters, and she almost touches the spot where his lips had brushed her skin before she catches herself.

“For luck,” he says, with a slight smile. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

“Hale and whole,” she reminds him.

“Always,” he promises. He stares at her a few moments more, gaze intent as if trying to memorize her features, and then he nods, turning on his heel and setting down the street in the early morning night. Ziah steps outside as well, watching him go until he turns an alley and disappears from sight.

Her lips still tingle with the memory of his mouth. When he is gone, she presses her fingertips to her lower lip, still damp from his kiss, and from there she lightly draws her fingertips up to her cheek.

“Be safe,” she whispers.

But that is not enough to quiet the dread that sits heavy in her stomach, cold and sinister. It is not enough to quiet the sickly feeling that his goodbye had been permanent, rather than temporary.


	3. coliseum, ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: background asra/ziah  
> warnings: lucio (with a gun), depictions of violence, my attempts at action scenes, gladiatorial combat, potentially excessive ziah angst, ziah's a sad mary sue (whomst i love)
> 
> everything works out (somewhat) ok tho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been working on this since april, and, eugh. i'm just sick of looking at it. here ya go. have 10k since i couldn't find a good place to split it. :)

By morning, Asra still has not returned. She wakes to a face full of red sunlight, colored and darkened by the curtains, and lifts her wrist to cover one eye, squinting against the light. She trails the other hand over the sheets by her side. The bed is only meant to hold one person, but they have shared this bed for six years; the empty space beside her is cold, and damningly conspicuous.

She closes her eyes and rolls over, and in the sanctuary of the darkness behind her eyelids she thinks of his kiss. Thinking back, there had been failings on her part—she had stood stock-still, unresponsive and distant and cold.

A terrible response for a first kiss.

He probably thought… she doesn’t know what he’d thought.

But he had smiled, afterward. Surely that was a good sign.

It’s Rohanna all over again, only worse.

With a groan, she turns onto her back, squinting up at the wooden boards that make up the ceiling. She should not be thinking of such things, especially since Asra still has not returned. It is less than an hour’s walk to the Coliseum, so he should be back by now, especially since the sun has risen.

He is… skilled with magic. She is confident in that much. If he had faced troubles he would have found a way to contact her. She must trust him, and not worry. She gets up, and dresses, and goes about her morning as if it were any other regular day.

She thinks of the kiss.

By dusk, he still has not returned. Ziah closes the shop, takes inventory, makes notes of what items and which soaps she must restock and replace. Her plague charms have become more and more popular over the months; she had thought it an illness relegated to the poorest parts of Vesuvia, but now it is spreading—or it has already spread, and this is just the first she has heard of it. She will have to put more effort into greater cures for the future.

She thinks of the kiss.

By sunset, he still has not returned. Ziah makes herself dinner, ignoring the pain in her back and left hand, ignoring the voice that insists it is not her place to worry. It is not her place to be concerned. Asra had practiced for this very day; he would want her to trust him, and so she will trust him.

She thinks of the kiss.

By midnight, he still has not returned. Ziah gets up from her too-empty bed, unnerved by the silence—she has always fallen asleep to noise, and cannot sleep when there is only silence—and goes downstairs to the saltwater fountain, where Tiamat has spent most of her days, since the city cut off access to the ocean in an effort to quarantine the plague.

Tiamat sits on the edge of the fountain, her first emergence from it for the first time in three weeks. Ziah’s heart leaps into her throat.

Three weeks ago, Tiamat had had hair; she had had black horns that pointed straight out from her skull; she had been the length of Ziah’s arm, and a healthy blue-green. Now she is discolored: some of her scales are gray, or a sicklier, paler shade of their original color. Now, her hair is all gone. Now, when Ziah holds out trembling hands and Tiamat pulls herself from the fountain into Ziah’s hands, her body is covered with slicked, grey-yellow dead skin.

“Why did you keep this from me,” Ziah says, voice shaking. Tiamat does not reply. Ziah wipes the dead skin away, grimacing. Once Tiamat is cleaned, she puts Tiamat on her shoulder and bends the water out of the fountain. It is clouded with hair and dead skin and bones of the sardines Ziah had fed her. It should not be like this—she had cleaned the fountain only a few days ago. “Tiamat, _why did you keep this from me._ ” She swallows hard. Nausea churns in her gut, sickeningly cold. “I know wyrms are prideful creatures, but _honestly_.”

Tiamat’s answering sigh rattles. It sounds like Death’s whispers. _I did not wish to worry you_ , she says. _Asra is still missing. You have more pressing concerns._

“ _You_ are my most pressing concern,” Ziah tells her, going upstairs to grab her messenger bag. She finds their largest cooking pot and its lid, and stuffs it inside. Tiamat moves to the back of her neck, slick scales making her shudder, and curls beneath the weight of her braid.

_I am old, child. Perhaps it is time…_

“Do not say another word,” Ziah says, almost snappish. She shrugs the strap of the bag over her shoulder and goes back downstairs, yanking the door open. “If I must find a way to contact the mer so they may take care of you in my stead, I will not hesitate to do so.”

_I will not leave you._

“You will if I command it,” she mutters, closing the door behind her. She doesn’t bother to lock it as she turns and marches toward the docks. Every time she thinks of Tiamat’s shedded skin and weakened state, bile rises in the back of her throat. “Tiamat, if I lose you—”

_You will not._

“I would be more certain of that if you bothered to care for yourself,” Ziah snaps. Her hands are shaking. She takes a deep breath, turning a corner and walking toward the docks. She wraps the shadows around herself, casting a strong illusion so no one on the streets will notice her presence. Once on the docks, she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.

The guards blocking off the ocean do not stop her. They do not even see her.

Ziah walks out into the ocean, holding Tiamat close to her chest, and once they are a sufficient distance from the shore she sits on the glassy surface, lowering her hands and unceremoniously dunking Tiamat in the saltwater. Were she not so small, Ziah would leave her here for years and not let her return until she had recovered. As it is, she is weak, and any large fish could easily make a meal of her, were she not careful.

“I am angry with you,” Ziah says. “I am furious.”

 _Child_ , Tiamat says, _you are dear to my heart. I love you as I loved my children. But I detest how dependent I have become upon you. I despise the fact that you feed me, clean me, keep me safe because I no longer am capable of doing it myself. There is no honor in this slow march to death._

“You wyrms and your _honor_ ,” Ziah sneers, rolling her eyes. She feels a tremble run through her hands and bites the inside of her cheek. “Would you have preferred to be hunted, then? Left for dead, never found by my ancestors? Would being slain like a common beast have been a more _honorable_ death?”

Tiamat is silent, and Ziah knows why: because the answer is also no. There is no honor in being hunted like a prey-beast, when your kind had once been the proudest and strongest of the four serpents. There is no honor in being treated as some mindless animal, left to die in the dirt.

“And there is honor in dying of old age,” Ziah says, finally, after Tiamat holds her silence. “It only means you survived all your tragedies.”

Her mind is already racing with what she should do. She could visit Lina, or the ancient wyvern Slyrak, in the Waste. No, better, she could visit Rylai, warden of the Blueheart Glacier. Auroth is only a few thousand years younger than Slyrak and Tiamat; she too had fought in the ancient war against Maelrawn, and she is knowledgeable about old sources of power. If she left Tiamat in Asra’s care and left, soon, she could perhaps find something to help—

 _Child,_ Tiamat says. _Look._

Ziah looks. The seawater around her is glowing pale blue, warm as the sun. Asra’s magic radiates from it, and her heart leaps in her throat. She shifts her gentle hold on Tiamat so that she is holding her in one hand rather than two, and lifts her free hand, brushing a single fingertip against the water’s glowing surface.

It ripples under her touch, and moments later Asra’s face forms in the water, replacing her own reflection. There is blood on his nose, dried around his mouth, and a bruise ringing his left eye in a circle of terrible black and blueish shades. Ice floods Ziah’s veins. Before she can speak, he smiles at her. “Ziah. Wow, it’s good to see you. I know what it looks like, but please don’t freak out.”

“Where are you?” she says. Her voice sounds too steady for the riot of fear and anger warring within her. _Who did that to you?_ she wants to ask, but holds her tongue.

“The Coliseum,” Asra replies. “I’ve been trying to draw the water up from the underground rivers for hours. I… I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Asra, what happened.”

Asra looks away, then takes a breath and meets her gaze head-on. “I got caught,” he says. “Lucio was visiting Muriel, apparently. The guards with him didn’t see me, but—he had this… doctor, someone, I don’t know, they saw me, somehow. And after that it was like my illusion wasn’t even there. Your sigils worked great, by the way.” He smiles, grimly. “I even think the guards’ll make it, if they pull through the next week. Too bad Lucio’s arm apparently negates magic.”

Ziah’s fingertips are cold, and her left hand hurts as it has never hurt before. Her heart beats in her throat, not her chest. All she can focus on is Asra’s bruise, and the blood around his mouth. “Have they fed you?” she finally asks.

“Didn’t eat it.” Asra glances away again, presumably toward the meal he had declined. “Don’t trust it, honestly.”

A fair choice. “Save your energy,” she says. “Sleep. Do not heal your injuries; using excess magic will only increase your fatigue.” She swallows. She almost says, _wait for me; I will come for you._ She almost says, _your kiss has haunted me all day._ She almost says, _be careful, sweet._

She says none of those things; she holds her tongue. It is not her place. It is not her place to love him, it is not her place to go to the Coliseum and interfere, it is not her place to save him or his friend. Tiamat sighs, but holds her tongue, thankfully. Ziah is in no mood for her lectures now.

“I know,” Asra says. “I just wanted to say—don’t come tomorrow. Please. I don’t want you to see that.”

It takes her a few moments to decipher why he would ask her this. When she realizes, cold horror sweeps through her, and she sits up, keeping Tiamat submerged in water as she leans over Asra’s shimmering face.

“He will make you fight Muriel?” Ziah asks, incredulous and suddenly, terribly afraid.

“Muriel won’t hurt me,” Asra says, confident, too foolishly confident. “Lucio can’t _force_ us to fight.”

“ _Asra._ ” She hurts as she has not hurt since her youth. Every muscle is tense, stiff, on the path to aching soreness. Her chest is tight, her breath coming too quickly. She thinks of Muriel cleaving a man’s head from his shoulders with a single swing of his greataxe, thinks of that happening to Asra, and her soul shivers in fear. _No. Please, no._

“Ziah, please. Trust me. I got myself into this, I’ll get myself out.” He smiles, briefly. “I won’t let anything happen to me, Mizi, not while I have you waiting for me.”

Before she can reply, something clatters, the sound dulled from distance through Asra’s magic. He hisses a curse and looks over his shoulder, then quickly looks back at her. For an instant, she thinks he will say something, but then he shakes his head and breaks the connection.

It takes all of Ziah’s will to keep the ocean calm underneath her body, so she will not fall into the sea right there. She glances down at Tiamat, then shakes her head and releases her, opening her messenger bag and withdrawing the pot. She dunks it in the water, letting it fill to the brim before pulling it out.

It is heavy.

A sword would be heavier.

_What will you do?_

“I can do nothing,” Ziah whispers.

_No. You can do something, but you choose to do nothing._

Tiamat’s reprimand stings. Her back twinges, bringing with it the ghost of pain, the ghost of a memory. _It is not my place,_ Ziah thinks _._ Her mistress’s voice hisses that hard-earned lesson in her ear, a perfect echo of old, painful memory: _not your place, not your place, not your place._

Ziah resists the urge to cover her ears, to flinch away from that ghost. She is too old to show her fear so openly.

Tiamat sighs and wraps herself around Ziah’s wrist, warmer than the seawater, her weight comforting in its own way. _That pain is past,_ Tiamat says, voice gentler than before. _There is nothing to fear here._

Ziah closes her eyes instead, taking a deep breath.

She longs for a life where she does not have to fight, where she does not have to spill another’s blood, where she does not have to kill. It is what she has wanted since that wonderful, terrible night she had taken her freedom.

She seals the pot full of seawater and puts it in her messenger bag. Then she slings the strap over her shoulder and rises to her feet, drawing out seawater with a gentle movement of her wrist, leaving salt crusted all over her pajama pants. Finally, she bends down, retrieving Tiamat from the water and resting her atop her shoulder, ignoring how Tiamat drips water onto her shirt.

She returns to the shop and replaces the fountain water, until the saltwater is fresh and potent once again. She carefully puts Tiamat atop the fountain, watching the wyrm become something misty and incorporeal and crawl inside. Once Tiamat is inside, Ziah sighs and sits down, resting her forehead atop her knees and wrapping her arms around her shins.

 _Something Asra said bothers me_ , Tiamat muses.

“You should sleep,” Ziah says. “Regain your strength.”

 _He said, ‘not while I have you waiting for me.’_ Tiamat’s pause is pregnant with expectation. Ziah closes her eyes, heart pounding in the very center of her chest. _Did something happen between you two?_

Ziah thinks of the pressure of his mouth against hers, and blood around his lips. She feels sick. “There was a kiss,” she admits.

 _Pah! About time,_ Tiamat grumbles, but there is an undeniably pleased note in her rough voice. It startles a laugh out of Ziah, but her brief amusement fades nearly at once, as she thinks once again of Asra.

She wants to go after him. But if she does—she swallows hard, closing her eyes. It is not her place, and yet, and yet, and yet. She climbs to her feet, feeling as though she stands on unsteady legs, ready to give out underneath her at a moment’s notice. He had asked her to trust him, but she cannot stand idle, not while he is in danger. Yet neither can she go to the Coliseum and assist him, for it is not her place. She is torn, and her left hand hurts as it has not hurt since her initial injury, inflicted upon her long ago for the very disobedience she is now considering.

She needs sleep. She will decide in the morning.

She climbs up the staircase to the attic and collapses into bed.

She is so tired that she does not recognize her own gateway, at first.

She stands in the jungle of her homeland, the ground black and wet and lush beneath her sandals. It is a moonless night, but the fronds in front of her are backlit by gold. She steps forward, gently drawing one down, revealing the area before her.

A skeleton dressed in a fisherman’s simple clothes and pagri sits before her, perched on the edge of a cliff. Beneath his dangling feet is a sharp drop off, and stretching out before them are shining sands. The Scintillant Waste’s dunes are usually golden or coppery in the sun, but white at night. Ziah inhales when a breeze brushes her face, bringing with it the desert heat and the scent of the Waste: death and rot and rust.

“Ziah,” the Hermit says, not turning, “it has been too long. Come, sit beside me.”

His staff rests against his shoulder, but the lamp sits between his femurs, a solitary, flickering candle. Reversed, then. Ziah sits beside him as he had bid. She feels something beside her thigh and reaches down, pulling her deck from the ground. The Hermit reversed sits at the top of the deck, an exact replica of the being beside her. Golden keys hang from his rope belt, matching the keys that rest at the side of the skeleton beside her.

Ziah exhales. “He has stopped hunting me,” she says. “I do not know when the dreams stopped, but he is no longer in them. I do not know what such an absence means, for me, for the world.” She inhales, exhales, again, again, again. Balance in all things.

“Perhaps he has forgotten you,” the Hermit says.

“I betrayed him,” she replies. “I doubt it. He is still imprisoned?”

“He nearly destroyed the world. We would not let him slip from our control so easily,” the Hermit replies. She looks at the keys tied to his woven belt, and thinks that is not quite a straight answer.

“I see,” she finally replies. “What advice do you have for me, Hermit?”

“Your exile is over,” the Hermit replies, voice dry as desert sands. “Do not forget that.”

She sighs, leaning forward. She stares at the Scintillant Waste, stretched vast across the horizon, hiding Kemet ruins beneath its sands. The desert had held her heart for seventy years. She would stay there for seventy more, if it had not sapped Tiamat of all her strength.

The Hermit stays by her side, silent and grinning, until she wakes to warm Vesuvian sunlight on her face. She stumbles out of bed and goes downstairs, just far enough to see the longcase clock, which reads 10:55.

The Scourge’s matches are always at noon. And it is a thirty minute walk to the Coliseum, longer if there is heavy traffic, which there will be, because it is almost noon.

She hisses a curse, adrenaline jolting her awake. She stares at the ceiling, catching her breath, then sits up and goes downstairs. The sound of her footsteps are dull thuds on the old wooden steps, and she can feel her heartbeat in her throat. Tiamat calls her name downstairs, but Ziah does not heed her.

In utter silence she moves the couch and the phonograph and the plants, and within fifteen minutes stands before the outline of the hidden door. She opens it, and summons a witchlight to brighten the darkness of the hidden room.

When she steps inside, it is not the blood-sealed chest that interests her, but what is above it. She stares at an elaborate carved leather, and its concealed blade, the hilt wrapped in tough horse leather. Underneath it is a folded black cloak lined in scarlet ribbon, spotted crimson in some places from old blood.

She takes them both down. These had belonged to the High Chief of the Siluri people, the sher, before she had cut him down and destroyed his people with him. She had not taken his braid; she had cut his hair to the scalp and let his waist-length braid get trampled underfoot in the blood-soaked mud. But she had taken his symbols of power: the cloak of the first sher, four or five hundred years old now but still strong, and the silversteel blade etched with tales of Siluri victories and legends, Enmerkar and Lugalbanda and Gilgamesh the Scourge chief among them.

It had had a name once. She does not remember it; it had not deserved to be remembered.

The sword is heavy in her hands, the leather old and creaking. She does not know if the sword’s heaviness is good or not. On one hand, she has not maintained the muscle mass required to hold it comfortably, and on the other, she has not needed to live a life where such maintenance was necessary.

Ziah slowly unsheathes the sword. The _shrrk_ sound of the silversteel scraping against its scabbard sends a shudder down her spine, but she forces herself to look upon its blade. She sees Enmerkar and Lugalbanda fighting a snake-headed demon often found in Siluri myths, and on the other side of the blade is Gilgamesh single-handedly slaughtering five hundred soldiers in battle, his braid as long as hers if not longer.

She sheathes the sword and takes both blade and robe upstairs. The Waste stings her nostrils, the air of the attic hot and stale and decayed, and it makes her think of Lina. Lina, whose stolen soul-piece glowed like a curse under her left breast, whose very hair and eyes were made of flame. Beautiful Lina with too-sharp teeth and a mind half-rotten from five thousand years of isolation in a Kemet palace almost completely buried in sand.

_Fire’s where it’s at, hot stuff. There’s no water in the desert. So let that anger burn._

Lina had just wanted a show, a reprieve from boredom. But she had not been wrong.

Ziah stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror, lifting both hands slowly to pull the pins from her braid. When the last of her pins is pulled free, her braid drops down to its true length, the tip of it brushing against the backs of her thighs. She casts a strong illusion, turning the blue of her hair black.

 _Are you certain you wish to do this?_ Tiamat says from downstairs.

“I have no choice,” Ziah replies. “I will not let Asra come to harm.”

Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking, and her fingertips are cold. Her stomach does not settle. She does not look away from her reflection as she changes from her pajamas into more breathable clothes—a loose tunic, and trousers, and boots instead of her preferred sandals. She finds a red scarf, one of Asra’s, draped over their bed and winds it around her shoulders. Then she lifts the excess fabric to cover her head, drawing the ends around to conceal her mouth and nose. All that is left of her face are silver eyes and a naked forehead.

She has no woad with which to draw the old war patterns on her face, but that is just as well. She does not want attention; she wants Asra safe above all else. She would let the world fall to ruin so long as the debris did not touch him.

And that knowledge is more frightening than the concept of potential blood spilled at her hands.

She looks back at the sword and the sher’s cloak. This time, the sight of them is enough to bring old memories back to the forefront. Ziah swallows, acutely aware of how tight her chest has become, how shallow her breaths are.

 _Breathe, child,_ Tiamat says from downstairs. _Breathe._

It is several minutes before Ziah remasters herself. With shaking hands, she pulls on the High Chief’s robe, tying it at the waist with a red sash that matches the lining at the edge of the cloak. It is meant to go over armor, but she has no armor. She will have no protection save her own wit and instinct, once she goes to the Coliseum.

It is worse putting on the sword, cinching the strap tightly so the scabbard does not sag down her back. She can feel the sword’s hilt poking at the back of her skull every time she turns her head, inspecting her reflection in the mirror and fighting nausea.

She goes downstairs, taking note of the time—11:21—and goes to the ground floor. Tiamat sits perched on the fountain’s top, small and expectant, eyes bright blue. Ziah looks at her and walks to the door, and Tiamat realizes why the moment Ziah’s fingertips touch the curved knob.

 _No_ , she hisses. _No, you will not leave me behind._

“Yes, I will,” Ziah says, turning the knob. Before she opens the door, she feels a jet of water hit her square between her shoulders. She looks over her shoulder to see Tiamat perched atop her fountain, trembling, eyes burning blue and bright. It is a threatening pose, an attempt to get what she wants.

It might have been more effective were she not approximately the size of a rat.

“Really?” Ziah asks, exasperated.

 _Really?_ Tiamat replies, in the same tone. _I will crawl my way to the Coliseum if I must. You will not do this alone._

“Do not make me invoke your vow,” Ziah threatens. Tiamat growls, teeth snapping, but she can do nothing, not against such a threat. Finally, she sulks into the house atop the fountain, and from there disappears into the well of saltwater that keeps her alive. Ziah exhales, turning back to the door.

 _Ziah_ , Tiamat says. Ziah stops, waiting, but all Tiamat says is: _I am proud of you. Fight well and be safe. I will be here when you return._

Tears prick her eyes. Ziah stares at the wood grains in the door, nods, and slips outside.

It is hot for the morning, humid, and immediately she feels sweat trickle down the back of her neck despite the light clothing she had chosen. She locks the door behind her, refreshing the cross-me-not spell she has worked into the wood and plaster and brick.

It is early for this part of the city, so the streets are quiet as she slips from the edge of the slums toward the center of the city—but as the minutes stretch on, and she moves closer to the more populated center of the city, more and more people fill the streets. She casts a weak illusion over herself, so market-goers will not notice the sword and cloak and mask, but a few of the more alert pedestrians see her and gasp, quickly getting out of her way.

She arrives to the Coliseum with a swell of other onlookers. There are guards posted around the perimeter, as always, dressed in the Count’s personal insignia. That is not a surprise: he is always here to watch the Scourge fight. Several attendees are wearing clothes of black and forest green, and carry the same merchandise she had seen last time she was here.

It is disgusting.

She walks under one of the Coliseum’s three looming arched entryways, but the central arena is roped off to match onlookers. She sees several different types of weapons—swords, shields, whips and lances, a wooden staff—scattered throughout the arena, placed in seemingly random spots. There had been no such thing during the last match.

Muriel already stands alone in the sand, a collar and chains shackling his throat and wrists, his head bowed and his long black hair falling loose around his shoulders. It reaches his waist, she believes.

It makes her think of the old hero Gilgamesh, and Lucio dubbing Muriel _Scourge._  She frowns. Lucio knows Siluri legends, then. Interesting.

“Move it,” a guard says, noticing her loitering. Ziah glares at him, but turns and obediently joins the throng of people climbing into the stands. She finds an empty front-row seat, closest to the protective hip-high wall that prevents onlookers from somehow falling into the arena, and takes it. She sits next to a woman eating; the woman looks at her, shocked, then her eyes narrow. Ziah senses her glare upon her and turns her head, just slightly.

“My husband’s sitting there,” the woman says, voice annoyingly pitched.

“I don’t care,” Ziah replies, turning her steady gaze upon her. The woman’s anger falters as she sees the sword hilt at her back and Ziah’s mask, expression flickering with fear. She stands and goes up the steps to find another seat. It is just as well. Ziah turns back, scanning the crowds—a faceless mass of shapes and colors across the arena.

At the western side of the Coliseum is the Count’s box, draped in red velvet fringed in gold thread. Lucio is there, as is a scarlet-clad courtier who paces restlessly, their metal gauntlets catching the light every so often. She cannot see Lucio’s face this far away, but he is slouched in his golden throne, his head resting in the palm of his metal arm.

Outside the Coliseum, the bells from the Temple District begin to toll, counting out the hours. Ziah stiffens in her seat as Lucio waits for the tolling to cease, then rises. An instant hush falls over the chattering crowd. He lifts a golden hand, and his voice echoes across the Coliseum’s arena, as before.

“My fellow Vesuvians,” he calls. “You all know why we are here. On this day, those who broke the law of our city face judgement for their crimes. Today, those who had pled for trial by combat fight for their lives. If they manage to draw blood on the Scourge, they are spared to live another day. If not… well. They broke the laws of this great city, and will be punished accordingly.” He pauses, and though she cannot see his smile she can hear his glee in his voice. “If they fail, they will pay with their lives.”

The crowd roars, and a chant of _Scourge! Scourge! Scourge!_ is taken up throughout the arena. For a moment, Ziah is almost disoriented by the amount of noise. Someone in the crowd is praying, their soft voice nearly drowned out by the rest of the screaming crowd. In the arena, Muriel hangs his head.

Her fingertips are cold, and her nostrils burn with the scent of the Waste. The heat is almost oppressive; her clothes stick to her back, and she feels sweat run down the nape of her neck and down her ribs.

 _Let it burn_ , she thinks, though the thought is in Lina’s voice. She thinks Lina would like Lucio very much. She thinks Lina would hate Lucio—hate his arrogance, hate that his ego clashed with hers. She thinks Lina would rather burn the Coliseum than watch the match, just to laugh at the flames.

Lucio sweeps his hand out, gesturing to an area of the coliseum hidden by massive doors. Guards pull them open, and Ziah hears the rattle and groan of a hidden elevator, rising from the floors hidden beneath the Coliseum.

Moments later, the elevator emerges, carrying at least twenty people, all chained at the wrists. One by one, they go to the guards, who unlock their manacles. After they spread around the arena in a circle around Muriel, pressing their backs to the wall. As they spread out, Ziah realizes there are far more than twenty—clustering together on the elevator had concealed their true numbers. Perhaps thirty, maybe even forty. She does not count, but her heart leaps in her throat. Muriel is turning his head as they spread out, likely also keeping track of his opponents.

The last to be unshackled is Asra, with Faust nowhere to be seen. Ziah swallows, leaning forward in her seat, clasping her hands in her lap. Asra stays still until a guard shoves him forward, and then he goes to take his place. The crowd roars in anticipation of the match, stamping their feet in thunderous approval.

 _Monsters_ , she thinks, wildly. _Monsters, all of you._

She clasps her left hand to her chest, massaging burning knuckles, the pain so fierce it stings her eyes. Her arm shakes against her stolen robe. “Be careful,” she whispers, breathing in stale air through her half-mask. “Please be careful.”

Asra’s head snaps up. He does not see her, but he had heard her, and she hears his reply.

“No,” he says, “ _no_. Please, Mizi, please leave, I don’t want you to see—”

Lucio raises his hand again, and the cheer that greets him drowns out the rest of Asra’s plea, no matter how hard she listens for it. Instead of listening to his speech, Ziah reaches for the underground rivers that run through Vesuvia, feeling their distance. They are closer in some areas, further in others; the Coliseum counts among the latter group. The closest water source is thirty feet below ground, and any water she draws up would have to bypass the extensive underground network built beneath the Coliseum.

That option is out, then. She will either have to change the sand to water as she had in the Waste or rely upon her sword, and she has not fought since her freedom.

“—last one standing,” Lucio says, and sits down. Ziah’s hearing buzzes with the conversations and heartbeats of the crowd around her. The red courtier lifts a gauntleted arm and lowers it, sharply, and that seems to be the signal to start the match. Ziah watches as the contestants—it sickens her that she thinks of them as _contestants_ and nothing else—surge forward, all of them going for different weapons in the sand.

That’s why they had been there, then.

Muriel does not even seem to notice the other contestants fighting each other. He strides forward, and Asra sprints toward him. Ziah watches as a contestant picks up a spear and intercepts Asra, leveling the point of it at him.

Muriel shouts something, a warning or a challenge perhaps, but is immediately attacked by four other opponents. He cannot get to him.

She stands, heart in her throat, and runs.

The sun beats on her back as she descends to the ground level of the Coliseum. A guard standing by the roped-off arena has his back to her, too busy watching the match, and does not hear her footsteps as she approaches him from behind.

Ziah grabs his shoulder and spins him around, slamming the heel of her palm into the space between his brows. _Sleep_ , she thinks, and he collapses in the sand. Ziah tries to breathe despite her too-tight lungs, her racing heart, and enters the arena, easily ducking under the ropes that are meant to block off noncombatants.

She strides into the arena, squinting against the sun, lifting her right hand to unsheathe the sword. The _shrrrk_ of the silversteel scraping against the scabbard twists her stomach. She looks at the fight, and Muriel, fighting off five people who had joined against him.

She does not see Asra.

Heart in her throat, fingertips cold, she strides forward. A combatant slits her opponent’s throat and shoves the body away, looking around until she sees Ziah. With a wild yell, she charges forward, lifting her sword high. Ziah steps into her guard, hitting the woman’s brow with her palm. _Sleep_ , she thinks, and the woman collapses.

Ziah could have killed her so easily. Grab the exposed arm and break it, or step into her guard and stab the stomach, lifting the blade up through the stomach and into the lungs. None of these people had been trained to fight for their lives.

Ziah looks and sees Asra stumbling back, the opponent with the spear twirling it behind him. He holds two halves of a splintered staff. He looks up, eyes wide. Muriel shouts his name across the arena, but Ziah is closer.

She kneels, burying her left hand in sand, and closes her eyes. She pictures the clear, crystalline waters of the oasis she’d lived in during her years at the Waste, imagines cool liquid around her hand until she actually feels it; when she opens her eyes, there is a small pool of water around her palm and wrist, growing wider by inches with every passing heartbeat.

This spell had kept her alive in the Waste, and it will keep Asra alive now. She stands, sweeping her left arm up in an arc toward the spearman. The water shoots out of the pool in one long strand, and she wraps it around the spear before pulling her fisted hand back to her waist. The water yanks back, ripping the spear from the opponent’s hands. He looks back, confused, and Ziah adjusts her grip on the sword, striding forward.

Asra drops his splintered staff halves and punches the opponent across the face, sending him sprawling in the sand. Asra shakes his hand out, expression grim, and lifts his head. He reaches out, and when Ziah feels his magic tugging at her control over the water, she relinquishes it easily, and Asra wraps the water around himself in a protective arc.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, eyes wide. “Mizi, get out of here, please—”

“I am getting you to safety,” she replies, “and then you may scold me later.” She takes a step forward, adjusting her grip on the sword. Her arm is starting to ache. She has not fought in so long—she will be sore tomorrow, likely for days.

Asra takes a breath, dropping the argument. “We need to get Muriel,” he replies.

She nods. “Stay with me.”

She kneels down by the spearman, who groans, blinking up at her. She presses her thumb between his eyes, willing him to sleep, and stands up the moment his eyes close. She glances up toward the Count’s box, only to see that Lucio has stood up and is leaning on the edge of his box, watching her. The red courtier beside him is shouting—urging the other combatants to kill her and Asra first.

That will not happen.

She disarms and puts to sleep three others before Muriel meets them in the center of the arena. He levels his axe at Ziah, but Asra steps in front of him, sticking an arm out in front of her. “Who are you?” Muriel demands. He is furious, glaring at her with widened, fierce eyes. His brows are furrowed, exaggerating the scar that stretches from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. His body is splattered in blood, and the sand around him is red. Ziah holds his gaze, undaunted.

“A friend,” Asra says. “This is Ziah. I’ve told you about her.”

Muriel’s gaze flicks up to somewhere over their shoulders. Ziah turns before he even lifts his greataxe, wresting control of the water from Asra. She slams a pillar of water into the combatant who had been running toward them on silent feet, two swords in their hands. They go flying clear across the arena, landing in a heap, and Ziah calls the water back, looking back to Muriel.

There is still chaos in the Coliseum, combatants fighting each other in a desperate bid to be the last one standing so they may be pardoned and spared their lives. She glances up again toward the Count’s box—Lucio is watching her, and the red courtier is still shouting, gesturing at her violently. The crowd is also divided: some jeering, some cheering, some shouting indiscriminately.

“Get him out of here,” she tells Muriel, but before she can give him further instructions, the red courtier pulls a pistol from somewhere and shoots into the air. The _crack_ of the gunshot silences everyone in the Coliseum, and the combatants stop immediately, their fights grinding to a halt. Muriel steps in front of them, shielding them both from the others in the arena with the massive bulk of his scarred body.

Ziah drops to her knees and pulls Asra down with her. “Hands in the sand,” she urges in a whisper. “Now, Asra.” He obeys, wincing at the sands’ heat, near-burning under the sunlight.

“All of you!” the red courtier shouts, almost screeching. They point a gauntleted, shining finger at Ziah, Asra, and Muriel. “Kill these two, and all of you go free today. Scourge, you are _ordered_ to stop them!”

Muriel ignores the courtier and squares his weight, hefting his greataxe in both hands. “What is my first rule of magic?” she whispers to Asra.

“Something cannot be created from nothing,” Asra returns, immediately.

“And what do you do if you cannot create something?”

His eyes catch purple in the light. “You change it.”

 _Well done_ , she thinks. “Metamorphosis,” she whispers. “Just as we did on the beach, just as we practiced. Sand to water.”

Asra’s confusion clears, and he nods, looking back to the sand that engulfs his hands up to mid-wrist. His brow furrows in concentration. She joins him, closing her eyes, picturing the ocean around her hands instead of sand.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Muriel says, “you’d better do it fast.”

Ziah looks up to see that their opponents, encouraged by the crowds’ cheers and the promise of freedom but still intimidated by Muriel himself, are slowly approaching. She glances over her shoulder to see the red-clothed courtier is now red-faced, and Lucio is still watching her. She suppresses a shiver and strengthens her illusion on her hair, then turns back, refocusing on changing the sand to water.

When the first grain changes, the rest go with it. Ziah watches as the water grows, lapping against her wrists and knees, spreading to cover Muriel’s ankles, then the closest opponent’s. A gasp goes through the crowd, and she sits on her haunches, hands still in the water. Grain by grain, the sand becomes water, until over two-thirds of the Coliseum’s floor is water instead of sand. Every opponent stands in water; none of them are moving, too confused and alarmed at the turn of events.

They are not soldiers. They are prisoners, frightened of and unready for death. They are not trained to adapt to situations that go against their expectations.

Asra is sweating beside her, a minute tremble working through his arm. She is breathless and hungry. She places a hand on his back and steps forward to stand before Muriel, treading calf-deep water, letting the silversteel sword get wet.

Let it rust. Let it crumble to dust, and cease to exist, and take with it all she still fears.

“What’s your plan?” Muriel asks.

“Get him out of here,” she tells Muriel. “I will ensure there are none in your path.”

He looks skeptical.

“ _Kill her, you idiots!_ ” the red courtier bellows.

The first opponent to recover steps forward, and a pillar of water shoots up at her gesture, engulfing him up to the throat and freezing into a block of solid, foot-thick ice when she fists her palm. One by one, she freezes each of the remaining opponents to the ground in the exact same manner. Behind her, Muriel grabs Asra and lifts him up, carrying him easily through the water toward the door.

She lowers her hand when every opponent in the Coliseum is frozen to the ground. She turns toward the Count’s box, only to see that it is empty of all except the red courtier, who is scowling at her. The pistol at their side remains holstered, though she doubts that will remain so for long—if they have not tried to kill her yet, it is because Lucio had told them not to.

She does not want to think of why that may be. She sheathes her sword and bows to the crowd, and the confused silence turns to cheering. Stomach cramping, she straightens and parts the water in a clear path down to the double doors that lead to the elevator upon which Asra had come, and where Muriel had gone. The guards once stationed there are missing; they had left the arena once the fighting had started.

The elevator is already gone by the time she reaches it, but she does not falter. She stops at the edge of the elevator shaft, glancing down to see the platform—pulled by pulleys and hooks and switches—far, far below. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and steps off the side.

The fall is disorienting. She lands on her feet and rolls on instinct, wincing at the dull pain that throbs up her ankles and calves in pulses. As she rises to her feet, she looks up.

Asra and Muriel stand before her, surrounded by guards… and Lucio. Lucio is dressed in white and golden finery, a cape of ermine fur and red velvet draped over his shoulder. In his golden arm he holds a pistol, and he has the barrel pointed at Asra’s head.

Ziah stops breathing.

“There you are,” Lucio says, grinning. “Our guest of the hour finally decided to join us. Why don’t you come over here, hm? Quickly, now. This arm isn’t as patient as my real one. Sometimes I pull the trigger before I intend to, and I would rather my guards not have to pick up the pieces of… Assra, was it?”

Asra does not reply. Lucio’s eyes glitter oddly in the light. The pin at his breast looks too red, too warm, as if something is glowing from inside it. She looks at it and thinks of chains, of desert sands, of the Waste. But there is nothing she can do except walk forward, slowly, until she is at Asra’s side.

Lucio’s smile gleams, too wide, too disconcerting. “Good, good. Now, pull down that mask, sweetheart. I want to see who decided it would be a good idea to try to steal my Scourge.”

Asra and Muriel both stiffen. Ziah slowly lifts one hand to the mask covering the lower half of her face, curling her fingers around her mouth. She thinks of the bruise around Asra’s eye, and the blood on his lip, and Muriel forced into gladiatorial slavery, and she is so angry she cannot speak, cannot breathe. Her fingertips are cold, and she smells the Waste.

_Fire’s where it’s at, hot stuff. Let that anger burn._

She exhales, turning her palm outward, and flames shoot from her palm, catching on Lucio’s cape and the straw scattered over the floor. The guards yelp and pull back, trapping themselves behind the flames, and with a curse Lucio tears off his burning cape.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” she hears Asra say, distantly.

“Go!” she snarls at them both.

Muriel grabs him and starts running. Ziah summons more fire, blocking off the hall they’d run down, and Lucio swears at her from behind the flames. She turns and goes down the opposite hall, flinching when she hears a gunshot. The stone beside her fractures, scattering chips that rain down onto the floor. Ziah flinches and keeps running.

The hallway takes her into some kind of menagerie full of large sickly cats. Lions with slightly protruding ribs look at her, and cheetahs and leopards with patchy fur lie listless in their cages. Their water troughs are full, but their food troughs are empty, but stained with blood. Lucio must leave them half-starved for the matches.

Ziah looks at them and feels nauseous, her stomach cramping again. Too much magic. She turns another corner, past a cage holding a pacing black panther, and comes to a dead end. She closes her eyes, reaching out, feeling the stone with both of her hands. There are heartbeats on the other side of this wall, but she cannot tell if they are humans or animals.

She hears heeled footsteps, and Lucio’s ragged breathing. She steps back from the wall, desperately looking over the stone bricks as she pulls her sword from its sheath. It will do little good against his pistol, but if she can find a weak point, some place to exert magical pressure to bring down the wall—

Behind her, Lucio laughs. She stiffens.

“Caught you,” Lucio says. She hears him pull back the hammer, hears it click into place. She hears his heartbeat, racing hummingbird fast, trapped between his ribs—and underneath that, she can feel the water in his blood, as easily as she can feel the underwater rivers under their feet, as easily as she can feel the call of the ocean, ever-present in the back of her mind.

She drops her sword and closes her eyes, answering the siren song of his blood.

Though it has been centuries, the magic is old, and her muscle memory still present. Her wrists cross, hands going into blade, thumbs tucking themselves against the center of her palms. She hears him gasp, _feels_ the moment his body ceases to be his own, an instant before he pulls the trigger. Her hands are steady, fingers pointing straight, the power of Lucio’s blood thrumming through her.

Slowly, she turns on her heel, lowering her torso and lifting in a smooth arc. Lucio stands petrified before her, eyes wide, muscles jerking involuntary as he tries to fight off her control.

It is useless. It is always useless.

Ziah grits her teeth, washing her will over him, relentless and overwhelming as a tidal wave. Lucio cries out as she cramps his hand, and his pistol clatters to the floor. She kicks it away, approaching him with steady, careful steps. She curls her fingers, lowering her hands as if pressing down on something solid, ignoring the strain in her shaking muscles.

Lucio chokes on his own breath as his blood obeys her will, his body forcing itself onto its knees. Ziah uncrosses her wrists, and his arms jerk back, back bowing as he gasps out a sound that would have been a scream if he had held dominion over himself.

Ziah feels sweat trickle down her temple, her ribs, the nape of her neck. Her braid has never felt heavier a weight. Lucio spasms, mouth gaping open, and she _feels_ him try to fight her. It is a good attempt: his arms move several inches before she forces them back down, forces his hands to clench into fists that press tightly against his outer thighs.

He is rigid, trembling as she holds his body in her grasp. His gaze lowers from the ceiling to her half-concealed face, and in his eyes she sees naked fear where there had once been only sadistic amusement.

 _Good_ , she thinks, anger burning hot in her throat, blinding her to all else. _You should fear me, monster. You who love others’ misery, you who threatened Asra—death is a kinder fate than you deserve._

She curls her fingers, watching Lucio’s body contort under her control. It would be so easy to snap his spine in two, or to force so much blood into his heart that it burst under the strain. It would be so easy to make his blood burn, so hot it would consume all of him, leaving naught but ash behind. It would be nothing less than he deserved; a painful death, to compensate for the pain he has inflicted upon others. To compensate for what he had done to Muriel, and Asra.

She can see it so _easily_.

Her fingers begin to curl, almost into a fist. This time, Lucio does scream, eyes bulging as he contorts, helpless to her will. She hears something crack, a sickening noise that makes her stomach lurch. She remembers an ancient voice, so long ago, gleefully watching on as she did this to the sher, and she hears it again: _Do it, beloved. Prove yourself mine._

 _No_ , she thinks, immediately. She relaxes her control, just an instant, just enough so that his body will not destroy itself to please her darkest whim.

Ziah takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow hiss through her teeth, transferring her power into her left hand, ignoring how its trembles worsen. Bending another’s blood was a task meant to be channeled through the whole body, not a single hand; she will have to hurry before her control snaps. She pulls a knife from his scorched belt and tosses it to the floor. Inhaling, she sweeps her right hand out to the side and then back to her body, a single loop that runs from hip to stomach.

The water in the animals’ troughs heeds her call, rushing from the troughs to the floor, and from there to Lucio. She guides the water up with one hand until it reaches his neck in a swirling cylinder; when she fists her right hand, the water instantly turns to ice around him, two feet thick in diameter, a cage he will not be able to escape alone.

Only then does she release her hold over his blood. Only then does she stagger back, feel the chill in her pulsing fingertips, how her head spins and nausea sits uncomfortably between her throat and her stomach. For an instant, she is not under Vesuvia’s Coliseum, but a field far northeast, standing among a thousand broken bodies, with dark laughter in her ear.

She had made a sacred vow, and she will not break it, not even for this despicable creature.

Lucio had sagged in his prison, head fallen forward so his chin rests on the ice, gasping for breath. His heart _hammers_ , hummingbird-fast, so loudly it is disorienting. Ziah doubles over, swallowing bile as she tries to catch her breath. Above her she can hear other heartbeats—guards, searching for their Count, who had gone running after her.

Not much time left.

She swallows again, mouth dry, and strides toward him. Lucio lifts his head, watching her approach, and stiffens, straining uselessly against his prison of ice. “What—” he gasps, and she threads her fingers through his hair, pulling his head back and revealing the pale column of his throat, gleaming with sweat. She picks up the knife she’d tossed aside.

“What are you?” he manages, eyes wide, wild. To his credit, his words betray none of his fear; she sees it only in his eyes, and hears it in the skip of his heartbeat when she holds his knife up within his plain sight. He is afraid of death, and he is afraid of that which he cannot control.

“ _What are you?_ ” he demands again, nostrils flared and teeth bared, infuriated by her silence. An attempt to show hate, not fear.

She does not answer him. Instead, she cuts off a fistful of his hair, a sign of an enemy defeated in combat. Holding his gaze, she opens her hand, letting strands of golden blond fall to the floor in his plain sight. He watches, purpling with rage, though whether it is because he understands her insult or because he mourns his hair she cannot tell.

She swallows thickly, letting his dagger drop from her shaking hand. There is still one last task: he still knows Asra, and he still knows Muriel. As long as those memories remain intact, neither of them are safe.

Ziah holds Lucio’s face between her shaking hands, tightening her hold on him when he tries to rear back, tries to pull himself from her grasp. “D-Don’t—” he starts.

“Shut up,” she snarls. She digs her thumbs into his temples, nails leaving painful furrows in his skin. “ _Forget_.”

She is not skilled with magic meant to manipulate dreams or the mind; memory magic is one that requires great skill and care and practice to master. It is one of her many weaknesses. But so long as Asra is in danger—she will try.

She bows her head over Lucio’s as he gasps out wordless, agonized sounds, eyes wide and pupils shrunken to pinpricks. His memories flit through her mind. Any of them that mention Asra, or Muriel, or Scourge, or herself, she erases until there is nothing left. She snips the fragile web of memory, uncaring of the black holes she leaves in their place.

All she can think, as she searches Lucio’s memories, is one phrase: _you will not have him, you will not have him, you will **not**_ —

Finally, she erases the memory when Lucio first sees Muriel, first contemplates having him conscripted into his service, and pulls herself away. Her spell settles into his temples, glowing pale yellow before sinking into his sweat-slick skin and dissipating, and she presses her thumb between his brows. Under the force of her will, he sleeps, going limp in his restraints.

She hears the guards’ footsteps, closer, now, nearly upon her. She glances back at Lucio, then shakes her head and turns, going back the way she’d came, wrapping enough magic around her that she is one shadow among many. She passes the guards without consequences, hears shouts behind her soon afterward as they discover their unconscious Count.

She keeps going until she finds a trapdoor that leads to a smoky tunnel lit with red lanterns. It is a secluded area, sectioned off with dark or red drapes, and leads to a larger tunnel full of stalls and people who do not look each other in the eye. The Red Market. She has been here before; she must find the bar here, and then from there return to the shop.

As she walks, resisting the urge to run, she thinks of Lucio’s bent, nearly-broken body. She thinks of how willing she had been to kill him, how she had pictured his death three different ways. She pictures his blood burning, his heart bursting under the strain she had put him through, and comes to an abrupt halt, ducking behind a drug dealer’s stall and leaning against the wall, dry-heaving.

She thinks of her anger, still lingering inside her like simmering coals on the verge of bursting into flame. She thinks of how willing she had been to break her sacred vow ( _for Asra,_ she thinks, but that does not justify her actions, it justifies _none of it_ —) and retches. Bile rises in the back of her throat. This time, she cannot stop it.

She vomits in the tunnels, shaking, seeing blood on her hands and in the sand and in the grasses far far north, smelling the stench of dead bodies—

 _Breathe_ , Tiamat says. It has been so long since they have communicated over any sort of distance, hearing her voice in Ziah’s head is startling, unexpected. Ziah stumbles away from her sick, pressing her back to the wall, and lifts her chin, trying to keep herself from hyperventilating. She can feel her pulse in her throat, and cold sweat on her face and neck and ribs, and her fingertips are too cold.

When she closes her eyes, a field of bodies lies stretched out before her, motionless, every one of their hearts burst. _Excellent work_ , she hears, the same voice that had haunted her nightmares up until a few years ago _. Now. Prove yourself mine._

 _Breathe, child_ , Tiamat says again, tone firmer, now. She drags in a slow, burning breath, letting it hold, straining against her lungs until she stutters out her exhale. _You are safe. Come home._

“Yes,” she whispers, opening her eyes, only to see several people staring at her. She can hear every one of their conversations.

“Hey, lady. You okay?” someone asks. Behind him, someone murmurs, “I think Dr. Jules is around here somewhere.” — “Don’t call him that,” another snaps. — “Should I get him?” — “She’s probably just coked up.” — “Leave her alone, not our business.” — “Why is she dressed like that—?”

She filters them out and keeps walking. She only needs fresh air. She only needs to get out of the Coliseum, where Muriel had been imprisoned, where Asra had been hurt, where she had almost broken her vow, where where where—

Her body aches; she has eaten nothing all day, had expended too much magic, and her body feels weak, loose-limbed. She will have to eat something, lest her body turn upon itself to recover from her magic usage. A migraine throbs behind her eyes.

Halfway out of the Red Market, she realizes that she feels lighter than she should. With a jolt of alarm, she reaches up toward the scabbard strapped to her back, and her fingers only feel air. Her sword—her sword is missing. She thinks back to when she had last had it—when she had dropped it to bend Lucio’s blood. She had not retrieved it.

Which meant Lucio has it.

She swears to herself, quietly, but in a combination of syllables and words and languages that make passerby give her odd glances. She manages to get herself out of the Red Market into the light of day. She unwraps the scarf from her shoulders, dispels the illusion dyeing her hair black, shrugs off the scabbard of her sword and the sher’s robe. Gathering it into her arms, she does her best to stick to the back alleys of the city, finding her way home from there.

Asra is not at the shop when she returns, but Faust is, curled up on the display case. She lifts her head the moment Ziah opens the door, windchimes ringing. “Is he safe?” Ziah asks, breathless and aching. Faust bobs her head, and the weight on Ziah’s chest lifts.

Tiamat is sitting atop the fountain, as if she had not moved. Ziah reaches out to her and she slides onto her hand, curling around her forearm. Ziah sighs and goes upstairs. Faust silently slides from the display case and follows her. She dumps everything on the couch and, after grabbing several fruits from their bowl, sinks into one of the dining chairs. She devours them, hungry as she has not been in a long time, and afterward rests her pounding head on her forearms. Tiamat moves to sit on her shoulder, a comforting weight.

 _Him_ , Faust tells her, touching her snout to Ziah’s fingertips. She sends Ziah impressions of the forest outside, and a stone hut built into a living tree. _Safe there_.

“Good,” Ziah replies, lifting her head slightly. “I will visit him soon. I must make sure my spell worked. Go to him, Faust. Please. You can tell Tiamat if anything happens.”

Faust obediently leaves. Ziah closes her eyes; the backs of her eyelids are stained red. She gets up and finds a wrapped loaf of pumpkin bread, then returns to the table and eats it, slowly this time. She thinks of Asra’s kiss, and the injuries on his face. Injuries she had not had the chance to heal.

She thinks of Asra defenseless before the spear-wielding opponent and squeezes her eyes shut. “I almost killed for him,” she whispers, once she knows Faust is gone. “Tiamat, I almost—I almost—”

She cannot bring herself to finish. She has not taken a life since her freedom; what did it mean, that she had been so willing to break her vow in Asra’s defense? Had a single kiss destroyed her willpower, her resolve, so easily? Did he mean so much to her?

The thought frightens her, and makes her body ache. She has been alone so long. She has kept herself in solitude for so long, yet a single kiss, a single dimpled smile, had crumbled all of her walls to dust.

Tiamat presses her nose to Ziah’s pulsepoint. _Breathe_ , she says. _It is over. I am so proud of you, Ziah._

Ziah’s eyes sting, and she covers her face with her hand.

It is over. Asra is out of the Coliseum, safe in the forest with Muriel, and Lucio’s memories of him have been wiped. She had not, in the end, broken her sacred vow, no matter how close her temptation had brought her. It is over.

She should go to the forest, check on Asra and Muriel, cast more spells so that red courtier or anyone else cannot accidentally trigger Lucio’s memories. There is so much to do. It is over, and yet it is only the beginning. She will get up, soon, and continue her work.

But for now, she will rest, and think.


	4. you had me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You?” he asks, still grinning, still young and foolish and somehow, impossibly, utterly in love with her. “Break my heart? Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the lucio bonus scene in v.7.29, where lucio asks mc whether they "were the one who broke [asra] for me?" -- and my brain immediately went to angst. still need to practice my asra characterization, rip.
> 
> pairings: asra/mc  
> warnings: lucio and his gotdam humiliation kink
> 
> heavily revised as of 4/18

She always has sage and jasmine and frankincense burning in the shop, these days, to better purify the air and strengthen the protective spells around the shop. She draws wards and runes around the house’s doorways and windowsills, and prepares protective and healing charms for customers desperate to buy them. Yet nothing shakes the sense of foreboding that lingers like a heavy, cold cape draped over her shoulders.

The plague claims more and more every day. It is not a physical disease, but something from another realm, and she does not know how to combat it.

Asra had waited until the new moon to visit his friend, Muriel, the gladiator they had rescued from the Coliseum. She had drawn upon his body various sigils of protection with sacred salt water mixed with dragonlily ink herself, so she knows that he will be safe. Still, she worries. If he contracts the plague, he will be far from her healing waters, far from Tiamat’s diminishing power, and his familiar—still so small and new to this world—will not be strong enough to alert her to any danger in which he finds himself.

She does not realize she is gnawing at her thumbnail until the sharp  _clack_  of her teeth biting through the nail pierces the air. She lowers her hand at once and closing her eyes, inhaling deeply, allowing the incense to fill her lungs and calm her, though it takes several long breaths before her mind begins to settle. She senses movement and when she opens her eyes, Tiamat is sitting atop the small saltwater fountain Ziah had constructed for her, watching her with bright blue eyes.

The wyrm had once been larger than this room, than this very _building_. She had once been strong enough to power her movement with magic, floating through the air as easily as she had swum through the ocean she so loved. But that had been long ago.

Ziah gets up with a sigh and crosses the room, cupping her hands in front of her. Tiamat crawls into her hands and curls up into a circle, barely filling her palms.

 _He will be well_ , Tiamat assures, lifting her head and brushing her scaled snout against Ziah’s thumb.  _You worry too much._

“He is different,” Ziah replies, lifting her hands so Tiamat may rest upon her shoulder. It has been weeks since the Coliseum, weeks since its fallout and their subsequent reconciliation. “I… he is my tether. I no longer know what I would do without him, I fear. He is important to me.” The Coliseum’s aftermath had proven that much to her. She has remastered herself since then, though the thought remains unsettling and strange, but not… not unwelcome.

_I am heartened to see you are no longer blind to your own feelings, child._

She is far too old to blush, but she allows herself a small smile as she begins to rearrange the jars that rest behind the counter. Powdered bat’s milk, pickled newt eyes, preserved wyvern honey from the Blood Mountain…

The door opens, the bell ringing alongside the silent wards audible only to her ears. Ziah returns the jar of wyvern honey and turns to face the customer, silencing the wards with a gesture hidden behind her back.

The visitor is a man she knows well—pale, and blond, with tattoos under his eyes that distinguish him as a member of one of the southern war tribes. His hair is shorter, now, than their last encounter: hiding evidence of his humiliation, no doubt.

She does not kneel or curtsey or do anything except stare at him, hiding her unease.

“My Lord Count,” she says. “What brings you to a humble apothecary’s shop?”

Count Lucio hums, lowering his golden hand to rest lightly atop a display case—he had worn the claws today. At her silent urging, Tiamat crawls down the back of her neck, burrowing into her hair. Her braid will shield the lump. Lucio drags a single golden claw over the glass, the sound high-pitched and squealing, but Ziah does not flinch. She extends a hand behind her, and the water in the scrying bowl across the room begins to tremble, quickly forming into something semi-solid and ready to answer her call.

“You know, there were rumors of this little shop,” he drawls, observing everything in the room but her. He stops in front of the fountain that serves as Tiamat’s home, and it takes everything within her not to tense. His cloak is entirely made of white fur, and it swirls around his ankles, which are clad in heeled golden boots. “Rumors that you were just a little fortune-teller, or an apothecary, or a midwife, or a soaper—depended on who you talked to, really. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?” He turns, eyes narrowed as he takes in her long, braided hair that falls down to her hip. “I can  _taste_  the magic in this little shop.”

He takes a step toward her. Tiamat burrows further into her hair, but Ziah remains silent. Lucio’s lips quirk up into some cruel facsimile of a smile.

“So tell me, little witch, why haven’t you gone to the palace?” He turns away, examining more of the shop’s magical wares. His claws tap against the glass, hard enough that small cracks spiderweb through it. Ziah turns her body as he starts to circle her, keeping him within her sight at all times. His eyes are bloodshot, she notes—but no, there is too much red to be simple exhaustion. He speaks before she can think of it further. “We’ve opened our doors to everyone trying to find a cure for this plague. A witch of your talent—and your apprentice’s—would be welcome.”

“I have not the slightest idea how to cure the plague, my Lord Count.”

“Well, obviously, no one does. That’s the point of coming to the palace,” he says, annoyance shadowing his features. “Maybe you don’t think you can help any more than the people who are already there. That’s fair! The palace already has dozens of people, right? What can a little soaper witch like you do?” He barks a laugh, coming to a stop in front of her. Slowly, his expression shifts: from a faint smile of amusement to a dark scowl that betrays a deep well of anger.

“Or maybe you haven’t gone to the palace because you know we have been looking for the magicians who stole my beloved Scourge a few weeks ago.” He takes a step forward, and another, and another, until they are almost chest-to-chest. Ziah is taller than him, she realizes, even with the heeled boots he wears. “Maybe you haven’t gone to the palace because you didn’t want to get  _caught_.”

She does not react.  _Careful,_  Tiamat whispers.

“I do not know of what you speak, my Lord Count,” she says.

“That is what I mean,” he hisses. “ _No one remembers him anymore!_  You  _took_ him from me and I can’t even get him back! He was  _my_  gladiator,  _my_  property—you had no right to steal him from me!”

 _How dare you_ , she thinks, anger trembling hot in her throat. She remembers facing him down in the tunnels underneath the Coliseum, her fury blinding her to all else, almost making her break her sacred vow.  _How dare you kidnap innocents and make them your slaves._

But she is just a soaper and apothecary to him, as yet, and he does not remember that day, not any longer. She must be careful. “My Lord Count, I do not know of what you speak,” she says, again. He searches her face but cannot detect her lie. She is too old, and too practiced, for such slips.

“Then it was that little orphan you took under your wing?” he asks, lips curling away to bare his teeth at her. “Perhaps I should be hunting  _him_  down instead.”

Ziah clenches her jaw and Lucio grins, something animalistic and dark in his eyes. “Ah, there we go,” he says. “Found something.” He chucks her under the chin with his golden claws, and she jerks away, nose wrinkling. Her braid swings around her hip, and his red-rimmed gaze snaps to it, silvery eyes darkening. His smirk is slight, but there is something cruel in his glee, something that makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“You know, my tribe had legends about the Siluri,” he tells her. This time, when he steps forward, she steps back. “They were the fiercest warriors ever seen, their raids and heroes the stuff of legends. Even Prakra feared them, back before it was an empire. They never cut their hair unless they lost a battle, did you know? Scalping a Siluri was considered a great achievement, apparently. But then the tribe just... disappeared. Do you know what happened to them, little witch?”

His eyes linger on her face, waiting for a reaction. Ziah does not give him one, even as she turns her wrist and the water begins to lift itself from the scrying bowl behind him once more. “I do not, my Lord Count.”

It seems to be the answer he was expecting. His lips twist into a leering, triumphant grin. “One night, each and every Siluri was slaughtered by a little blue-haired Prakran slave girl who could control water—but that was  _three hundred years ago._ ”

Years and years of training hides her shock, but she cannot stop the skip in her heartbeat. Impossible. She had wiped his memories, personally. Had vestiges of that day been left behind, somehow? How had he learned—?

When he grabs her throat, the movement far too sudden for her to counter, age old instincts flare up in her. With a snarl, Ziah lifts her foot and plants it into his unprotected stomach, kicking as hard as she can. Lucio wheezes, releasing her, and she lands on her feet, her arms already moving. At her command, the water bursts from the scrying bowl, rushing towards Lucio, surrounding him and slamming him up against the wall next to the door. She fists her hands, lowering her arms, and the water ices over, pinning him to the stone in a wall of glacial cold. Ziah approaches him, forcing her trembling legs to stand steady, and calls back some liquid water to her. It crystallizes into a spear in the palm of her hand, which she levels at his throat.

Lucio only laughs, baring his teeth. “Fucking hells, it’s  _true_ ,” he says, wheezing. His canines gleam in the gas lamp’s light as he grins at her, energized by the violence. “I didn’t think it was, when I first saw you—but holy shit.” Ziah takes a deep breath through her nose and presses the spear forward, letting it prick his throat, letting the blood trickle down his skin, staining the pale flesh red.

She can hear his heartbeat, can feel its pulse as surely as her own. It would be so easy to make his blood burn, or to make his body contort until it broke him in half. _So_  easy.

“If I don’t walk out of this shop within the hour,” Lucio sneers, “my guards will come in here and kill you. They’ll burn down this adorable little shop. And then they’ll hunt down that apprentice of yours and kill him too. So if you want to keep your  _hide_ , little witch, you’ll let me go.”

This close, she can see that her suspicions are correct—the red around his irises are not faint, or from exhaustion, but deep crimson and too obvious to ignore. Ziah clenches her jaw and pulls away, turning her spear into a harmless orb of water that floats above her hand. The ice stays, pinning him to the wall.

He says, with a savage smile, “See? I knew we could be reasonable with each other. So I’ll offer you a deal: you tell me where my Scourge is hiding, I drag him back to the Coliseum in chains like the dog he is, and I’ll forget all about this. You can keep making soap or whatever the fuck it is you do here, and your apprentice will be taken to the palace, to face justice for stealing my property.”

“Human beings are not  _property_ ,” she snarls. Lucio rolls his red-stained eyes. “Even if I gave you the information you seek, you will not live long enough to see another Coliseum match.”

“Is that a  _threat?_ ” he asks, almost gleefully. She lifts her chin.

“You have the plague,” she says, and he goes still and quiet, his perverse joy slackening into shock. “It is only a matter of time before you succumb to it. And when that day comes, I will not wear black and indigo to mourn you. I will wear scarlet and gold, the colors of joy.”

His golden shoulder flexes, and the ice restraining his mechanical arm shatters. He drives his fist into the ice covering his body, and it shatters into chunks, raining around his feet. Ziah unfreezes the water and calls it back to her again, curving it in a protective arc between the two of them. Lucio is breathing hard, his nose scrunched and mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. 

“How,” he hisses. “ _How_  can you see the plague? My magicians—”

“Are unskilled,” she says. “Now, you will leave this shop, or I will make you leave. Do you understand, my Lord Count?”

Lucio clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath. “No,” he says. “No, you’re not the one in charge here.  _I_  am. So you’re going to listen to what I—”

Ziah steps to the side, and the water follows the movement of her arms, the invisible guidance of her willpower. It rushes down to his ankles and coagulates, becoming semi-solid, and sweeps back with enough force to trip him. He pitches forward with a started cry, and Ziah shoves him forward, onto his hands and knees. She plants her foot in the small of his back and kicks out, sending him sprawling.

His breath hitches when she straddles his back, winding her fingers into his golden hair and gripping tight, yanking his head back. Water crystallizes in her palm once more, forming a wickedly sharp blade, one she presses to his throat. She leans down, her lips against his ear. “Let me be clearer.  _You_ are not in control, my Lord Count,” she hisses, and his swallow is audible. “You have no power over me. And if you touch a hair on my apprentice’s head, I will burn your blood until your body is consumed in flame. There will be nothing left of you but ash.”

There it is again. That old temptation to kill, only awakened when she sees him. Tiamat is silent, clinging to her hair, but Ziah can sense her concern. She herself feels slightly nauseous at the thought of inflicting such pain on another individual again. She had made a sacred vow, one she will not break, but he does not know that, and so she keeps her voice steady and her knife pressed to his throat.

Lucio laughs, though the sound of it is rough, hoarse. A flush is rising steadily on his cheeks. “You can kill me, but my guards still have their orders. Your precious apprentice is still dead either way.” She clenches her jaw, and he bares his teeth in some cruel semblance of a smile. “So. Here is my new and improved deal for you, little witch. I’ll let the matter of the Scourge go, for now,  _if_  you send your apprentice to the palace.”

She opens her mouth, ready to reject his so-called “deal,” when he throws his weight to the side, knocking her off-balance. She lands hard on her shoulder and Lucio is there, whip-fast, pinning both of her hands to the floor. He leans over her, pupils dilated and face flushed pink, teeth gleaming as he grins at her. Tiamat moves, her scales catching on hairs in her braid, and Ziah shakes her head, slightly.

 _No_ , she thinks at her.

_Child, I will not stand by—_

_I said no! Remember your vow to me and to my people._

Tiamat snarls, but does nothing, as Ziah had bid.

“You,” Lucio says, catching his breath, “you haven’t had a  _real_  fight in ages, have you? You’ve gone soft. Weak. And now you can’t use your hands to do your water magic. What a shame. I expected better from the slayer of the Siluri.”

Ziah says nothing, biting her tongue until she tastes blood, and Lucio clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “So,” he says. “I’m a reasonable man. I’m open to discussion, and new information. So here is what’s going to happen, if you want your little orphan to stay alive. He’s going to come to the palace, and help look for the cure to this plague. There are rumors about him, too, you know, rumors that he’s growing more powerful than you. I have every confidence he’ll do what it takes to find a cure, if… _if_ he has the right motivation. That’s where you come in, little witch.”

Ziah grits her teeth.

“You’re going to go to the Lazaret. I don’t care if you get infected or not, but you’re going to make your little apprentice  _think_  you have the plague. That’ll make him come crawling to the palace, hmm?”

“Magic shall not save you, Lucio,” she says.

“ _Don’t interrupt me_ , I’m _not finished_ ,” he snaps. A moment later, his snarl eases into some easy smile that would have been charming had his eyes not been scarlet. “Now, you may be thinking: why would you ever agree to this? What do you have to gain?” He leans forward until their noses nearly brush, and she can smell the sickness in his sweat, can see individual threads of red staining his sclera. Her stomach lurches, bile rising in the back of her throat. She swallows it down. “Well, other than the fact I don’t need guards to get to your apprentice, I’ll let the whole matter of the Scourge go, for now. I’ll forgive you, and your apprentice, for stealing my property. He’ll be as safe as a lamb in the palace. It’s generous, isn’t it? I’m a generous man.”

Ziah starts to shake her head, and Lucio seizes her chin, clicking his tongue. Tiamat stiffens, hidden safely in her hair, and Ziah hears the distant roll of thunder, summoned by the wyrm’s anxiety.

“Let me be clearer, little witch,” Lucio says. “I _am_ in control here, and I am nothing if not a man of my word. So let me tell you: I don’t need any fucking guards to make sure my threats are carried through. I know your Asra left the city, and I know he told the baker he’d be back by nightfall. I know his first stop will probably be the baker, because he loves pumpkin bread, for whatever reason, and I know he has a favorite route to take to get to this shop from the baker’s place.”

Her breath catches, even as she keeps her expression neutral. Lucio hears it and laughs, his fingers digging into her jaw. “Yes,” he says, almost a murmur. “You see it, don’t you? I knew you were smart.”

“This plague is not something that can be cured. By  _anything_.”

“Hmm. See, you say that, but I don’t actually believe you, little witch. So, here’s what’s going to happen. If you’re not in the Lazaret by sunset tomorrow,” Lucio threatens, eyes narrowed, “your apprentice will be there in your place, and I will make sure he  _actually_  has this incurable plague. _You_ will be at the palace in his place instead, researching a cure. Understand?”

Ziah clenches her jaw and nods. He sighs, sitting back and withdrawing his human hand, but not releasing her wrists. After a moment, his gaze drops to her braid, and he picks it up, running it through his fingers.

“What beautiful hair,” he murmurs. “I want you to know, little witch, for that stunt you pulled earlier? _I_ will be the one to cut off this braid. Every fucking inch.”

Upstairs, the longcase clock begins to strike the hour. “Ah, that’s my cue,” he says, with the same grin he feeds the masses when he opens festivals or hosts parties at the palace—charming, cavalier, and now terrifying. He releases her, standing up and brushing himself off until he is once again immaculate. “Think about my offer. I hope to hear good news on the morrow.”

Ziah stares at the swish of Lucio’s cape as he turns on his heel and strides out the door. Once he is gone and the guards have disappeared, she pushes herself up on shaking arms, chest heaving as she begins to panic. Tiamat slithers up her back to rest on her neck, nuzzling her scaled body against Ziah’s throat. Her weight is a comfort.  _Breathe_ , she says. _Breathe, child._

Ziah closes her eyes, focusing on her breath and nothing but her breath. Eventually, the race of her own heart is drowned out by the call of the ocean, a familiarity that steadies her. “He will do it,” she whispers, once she has found her own calm, her own sense of self, and righted it to its proper place. “He will hurt Asra, he will _kill_ him—”

 _Unless I do what he wants_ _,_ she thinks.

She lets herself break down. She lets the tears course down her cheeks to stain the wood, ignoring the fact that she has not wept in many, many years. She lets the frankincense and sage burn her lungs, lets her body curl into itself until her forehead touches the floor, a mockery of the prayers she had once believed in, so many years ago. Tiamat says nothing as she curls around the front of Ziah’s neck, too small to wrap herself around fully.

Her silence betrays her thoughts: that she, too, thinks there is nothing to be done.

If she ignores Lucio, he will harm Asra, or kill him. Of that she has no doubt. She knows that Tiamat will be safe so long as she is by her side, but Asra… she closes her eyes, thinking of how it could happen: a drugged drink, a kidnapping in the shadows of a back alley, guards arriving at their doorstop to drag him away.

She could go into the forest, right now, take Asra, and run and never look back.

But Tiamat would not be near saltwater. And Muriel would be alone, and thus vulnerable.

And if she were in the Lazaret, she would be next to the ocean, which had been blocked off for months since the plague first appeared in Vesuvia. Tiamat could regain some of her lost strength, and she could attempt to heal the sick—attempt to find her own cure for this otherworldly plague. And Asra and Muriel would be safe from Lucio. But she would have to trust Lucio to keep his word on that, which she does not. But what other choice does she have?

It does not take long for her to make her decision. She takes a slow, steady breath, closing her eyes as she inhales, lungs expanding until they strain in her chest.

And then she rises and begins her work.

The first are the wards by the front door. She destroys them in controlled doses, silencing the explosions so the neighbors do not come running. The broken wards leave notes of warning energies in the air, a clear alarm to any sensitive to magic. Asra will sense it the moment he turns onto the street. When enough of them are broken, she returns to the shop and turns on the tap for a short moment, just enough to get a handful of water. She hardens it into a block of ice and slams it into one of the display cases, sending glass shards across the floor. She knocks a few of the cheaper materials to the floor, but leaves the wyvern honey intact and her two remaining eggs untouched.

She goes into the garden behind the shop and burns the parcels she’d specially crafted for customers, meant to prevent or ease the symptoms of plague, charms of protection and healing and comfort. The smell of rare and precious herbs wafts up in smoke and is carried away by the blaze.

But it is the illusions that hurt her the most. They are powerful, more powerful than Asra has ever seen from her—too powerful for him to detect as a falsehood. He is still learning, her young apprentice, but she knows his potential. Perhaps if this had happened five years from now, ten, he would have known her façade for what it was.

Oh, she wishes she could have seen what he will become. She longs for it.

She whisper-sings an ancient mourning song, one from her girlhood, as she opens a vial of pig’s blood and dips her fingers in it, drawing thin lines over her arms, her side, her face. Where her fingers go, an illusion of split-open skin, knife wounds and scratches follow, as realistic as any true wound—illusions that will heal themselves in reaction to any kind of magic. She sits in front of a mirror and dabs pig’s blood on her eyelids, imaging the splash of scarlet in the Count’s eyes—and when she opens her eyes, the sclera are stained with splashes of red, thin tendrils of scarlet branching out from a matching corona around her iris.

She lifts what is left in the bottle with a gesture, manipulating the water within the blood to spread out and soak into the floorboards, carefully controlled puddles that will resemble an attack. When it is done, she corks the bottle and returns it to its hideaway place, tucked within a hidden niche behind the phonograph, along with the rest of the magicks and weapons she had long ago forsworn. She had nearly forsaken all of them, for him. And now…

It is nearly sunset by the time she lies down, rolling over onto her side, draping one arm over her body. Tiamat rests on her neck, curling up into a tight circle. She knows what part she must play.

 _This will break him_ , she tells Ziah.

“I know,” Ziah whispers. Her own heart, which she had guarded so selfishly until the day she met him, throbs hard beneath her breast, and she wonders if she has somehow made it bleed as well. They have only just reconnected, have only just forgiven each other for the trauma of the Coliseum. They have only just begun to heal. And now it would all have been for naught.

_Forgive me, sweet._

—  —  —

Asra arrives just after dark. She hears him sprinting down the alley, hears the hummingbird beat of his heart, hears him skid to a stop in front of the shop. She forces herself to stay limp and pliant as he steps over the dark threshold, even as she hears his breaths come in great, shaking gasps. “Mizi!” he calls, but the next moment his breath hitches, and his voice breaks as he whispers: “Mizi?”

The shop suddenly glows in a pale, warm light—light enough to see the blood around her body, the wounds on her arms, the destroyed shop. A sob rips from his throat, and he is suddenly kneeling beside her, gathering her into his arms. Ziah blinks open her eyes, letting her lips part as she stares up at him. Asra’s hands glow with healing magic, just as she’d known they would, and the illusions begin to fade, wounds closing up as realistically as if they truly existed.

He cannot tell the difference. But he would have, had they had more time, had she been a better teacher.

The light in the shop shows the panic in his eyes, and her heart breaks for him. She swallows hard, lifting a hand—weakly—to brush the pads of her fingers down one cheek. His gaze meets hers, and his expression crumples as he sees the red in her sclera.

“Mizi,” he says, and his voice breaks. “ _No_. No no no, please—”

“A mob broke into the shop,” she whispers, her voice low, dry and rasping. “They stole the charms against the plague. I could not stop them.”

“ _No_ ,” he says again, and lowers his forehead to her collarbone, shoulders hunched and shaking. He clutches at her as he weeps, his body rocking. She holds him to her, fingers buried in his thick moon-colored hair, and lifts her gaze to the doorway, where a group of curious onlookers have gathered. She knows the light must reflect the conjured red in her eyes, for a multitude of them gasp, and she hears the word “plague” murmured among them. One bystander starts running down the street. The doctors do not patrol this place on their own, in this place that is too close to the slums of Vesuvia, as the dead are often too many to bury: but when summoned for the living victims or the recently infected, they come. She can sense Death casting its shadow over her already.

Asra must sense it, too. He lifts his head, features twisted into something cold and hard, full of grief. She has never seen such a look on his face before, and makes her miss his dimpled smile. He shouts: “ _Leave!_ ”

The force of his grief wells up like a wave, pushing the onlookers onto the street. They scatter, the spell of watching their embrace broken, supplanted by fear of plague. He turns back to her, breath hitching, his purple eyes gleaming in the soft pale light.

“Asra,” she whispers. “Asra, it’s all right.”

“No.” He swallows audibly, turning into her touch when she palms his cheek. “No, I’ll—I’ll take you somewhere, somewhere north, somewhere far away from here. I’ll take care of you, Mizi, I  _promise_ , we can leave Vesuvia and forget them all—”

She lets him babble useless promises and instead holds him, trying to commit to memory the feeling of his touch. She knows how the sick are treated at the Lazaret—isolated and left to die, their bodies burned in pits. She strokes his hair, saying nothing, letting him hold her and weep until his eyes are dry and puffy and sore, and his voice fails him. Even then, he does not move, his body curled into hers like a sunflower bends for the faint rays of the dying sun.

They hold each other until the plague doctor arrives, his bleached mask and black cloak concealing all features. Asra holds her tighter, resisting as the doctor kneels before them and attempts to pull him away. “You’re risking yourself to exposure,” the doctor says, and he sounds gentle even through the mask. “You’re only making it harder. We can help her at the Lazaret.”

“No, you can’t,” Asra snaps, eyes narrowing. “There is no cure for—” His expression crashes, and he looks back down at her. “There is no cure,” he repeats, quieter. She brushes the wet skin under his eyes with her thumbs, cradling his face between her hands. If only they had had more time.

The thought almost makes her laugh. Time. She has had so much time, and she has squandered all of it.

“Asra, let me go,” she murmurs to him. He shakes his head, a low, panicked noise escaping him, reminding her how painfully, beautifully young he is. So she sighs, and lifts her head up, slowly, lethargically, as someone who had just survived a vicious attack would, and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. He goes still, only pulling back to look at her with wide eyes.

“The palace may help you find a cure,” the doctor offers. “I’ve been going there, myself, though I admit I haven’t had much luck.”

Asra doesn’t even acknowledge him. He smoothes back the baby hairs at her temples and swallows hard. “I’ll go,” he whispers. “I’ll find something.” Her heart aches in her chest, twisted tight, as if it is straining for him. His thumb brushes over her cheek. “I promise.”

 _I know you will try_ , she thinks, almost says, but she does not want to be cruel to him. So she only offers him a soft smile, doing her best to hide her grief. Tiamat slithers down the back of her neck and burrows in Ziah’s hair, hiding herself from the doctor’s glassy, red-tinted gaze. Ziah drops her gaze down to Faust, still small enough to nestle unseen on Asra’s shoulder, still new and fragile. She will grow larger, she knows—maybe even larger than Tiamat, when she was at her healthiest, her most powerful.

“Take care of him,” she whispers, and Faust flicks her tongue out, sending waves of reassurance toward her. Ziah swallows and lets her hands fall away, turning her face toward the plague doctor. This time when the doctor reaches for Ziah, Asra lets her go, his expression wretched and heartbroken. Tear tracks still shine on his cheeks, and she watches him press a hand to his chest. The doctor slides his hands under her body, lifting her against his broad chest, and Ziah turns her face away from Asra, closing her eyes and resting her head against the doctor’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says. Ziah squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to look at Asra, even when she hears him follow them out into the street, even when she feels his eyes on her.

She does not need to look back to know she has broken him.

—  —  —

She knows he loves her. He knows he loves her. Yet they do not speak of it, not for years and years of knowing each other. Not until one day as he is brushing her hair, brown fingers working through deep blue strands, humming a Vesuvian sea shanty under his breath. She watches his reflection work, her gaze lingering on his smile, soft and distant.

“You should not love me,” she says at last, once his sea shanty ends. Asra looks up, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. His eyes are like lepidolite, she thinks, deep purple with a thousand thousand flecks of silver and pale violet.

“And why is that?” He’s still smiling, still loose and calm from a good night’s sleep. They had been together in his dream, so he’d told her. They’d been doves, exploring the world together, flying over stormy oceans and hissing deserts and emerald jungles.

“Because I will break your heart,” she informs him, even as her own heart throbs under her breast. “Some way or another.”

He laughs, long and loud, the cheerful  _pfhahahah_  she has come to adore. He grins at her, afterward, eyes crinkling in the corners until they are almost closed. His dimples are shadows etched into his cheeks. He sets the brush aside and leans forward, kissing her shoulder.

“You?” he asks, still grinning, still young and foolish and somehow, impossibly, utterly in love with her. “Break my heart? Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u tryna be serious but lucio has a canon humiliation kink (ಠ⌒ಠ)


	5. blood in the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziah and Julian get off to a great start. :)
> 
> pairing: Julian x Ziah, pregame  
> warnings: drowning lite, descriptions of gore & torture

The Lazaret’s walls are black, and the windows are barred from the outside. It is what she first notices when the collector—for that is the name they give the plague doctors who roam the city streets in search of victims to quarantine—brings her to the island, the glide of his gondola near-silent in the water. The second is the viscous, red aura that seeps from the massive building like the walls themselves weep blood. The third is the stench of ash and death that pollutes the air, thick and near suffocating.

“You’ll be taken to the women’s dormitories,” the collector tells her, “and registered in the morning.”

It is the first thing he has said to her since he had pulled her from Asra’s arms.

Registered.

She mislikes the implications of that word.

The gondola pulls up into a long dock. The collector takes a few moments to tether it to the dock and steps out, rocking the gondola as he goes. He offers her a hand, but she simply rises to her feet and steps out onto the wood. It bows under her weight, gone soft and rotten from exposure to the sea.

“I’ll take you to the women’s dormitories,” he says, “but from then on you’re on your own.”

She nods. At the nape of her neck, Tiamat clings tighter to her body, hidden safely by the mass of her hair. This close, the call of the ocean is a constant thrum in her veins, echoing in the curve of her ears like waves echo in conch shells.

The Lazaret is a single, massive building. The islet had hosted a fishing village, once, before the plague: all that remains of this village is the dock she walks upon now. Lucio had ordered it torn down, and replaced with the monstrosity that towers above them. The collector doctor must open the large wrought iron gates with a key, one of a dozen identical keys on the ring attached to his belt. Ziah looks over her shoulder, where storm clouds are gathering to the west, pulled inward. They are deep purple, slashed through with grey, and the air smells damp with a storm as yet unspilled.

 _Tiamat_ , she thinks, _calm yourself._

 _That is not me_ , Tiamat says, though she sounds sullen, likely resentful of Ziah’s invocation of her oath from earlier in the day. The gate creaks open, and Ziah cranes her head up, counting the barred windows up to the number eight.

Eight floors, all barred. The trees are gnarled, and half of them have lost most or all of their leaves. They lean toward the central path that leads to the building proper, branches outstretched and sharp against the sky. It gives her the impression of the bent-backed beggars in the Temple District, reaching out for anyone wearing colors.

The women’s dormitories are on the fifth floor. Her legs burn climbing the stairs, and her knuckles scrape against stone more than once. The doctor has to unlock another massive door, this one wooden, and locks it again when they both step through. Ziah pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Wait here,” the collector bids her, and goes alone back through the door they had come from, his robes rippling around him with a cold draft that comes from no window. Ziah regards the cracked glass windows that tower above her, too high for her to reach, though she notes some of them are clouded with dried blood. The walls are deep gray in the candlelight—no gas here, she notes—but somehow that is only more foreboding.

It reminds her of ancient sanctuaries in places long forgotten by humanity: cold, and wet, and alone.

Hurried footsteps reach her ears, though they are still faint. Ziah looks toward the sound, turning away from the thin, branching halls that echo with the moans of the dying. The door opens once again, and the collector walks toward her, followed by a thin, steel-haired woman who is dressed in her nightgown and carrying a single candle.

When they reach her, the collector gestures between them. “Matron Violanda, this is your newest patient,” he says. Matron Violanda looks her over with a critical eye; in the midst of her inspection, the collector brushes past her, the door to the great hall groaning as he opens and slips out, locking the door behind him.

“Your eyes are mostly white as yet,” she says, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hm. Never had that before. Well, it’s late, but I can get you registered. Stay here.”

Ziah remains where she is as the matron leaves once again, and Tiamat moves in the folds of her clothing, restless. Matron Violanda returns shortly with a clipboard and fountain pen, without her candle. “Name?”

“Ziah.”

“Surname?” Violanda asks, not looking up.

Ziah hesitates, then acquiesces. “Reyansh.”

Violanda nods, scribbling something, and Ziah hears her murmur _patient 4420_ as she writes. “Doctor Devorak’ll have a look at you in the morning, and then you’ll be assigned a dormitory until you expire.”

4420\. Was that how many people had come here before her? A shiver runs down her spine at the thought of so many dying to this incurable plague.

And her last sentence— _until you expire._ It does not inspire confidence; were the doctors even working on a cure? Ziah’s brow furrows, then she finally says, wryly, “A dormitory? Not a cell?”

“We haven’t enough room for cells,” Violanda says, missing Ziah’s tone completely. She jerks her head back, over her shoulder, a wordless indication to follow. Ziah obeys. Their footsteps scuff on the stone floor, guided only by Violanda’s light. “After Doctor Devorak inspects you, we’ll give you clothes befitting a patient of the Lazaret, and burn the ones you’re wearing now. We’ll also have to cut your hair. Too long.”

Ziah stops walking. It takes several moments for Violanda to notice she has fallen behind, and she turns around to glare at her. “Well, come along,” she says. “We haven’t all the time in the world, you know.”

“You will not cut my hair,” Ziah says. “The inspection and clothes I consent to, but not my hair.”

Violanda scoffs. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “It’s unhygienic.”

Ziah glares at her. “It is _hair_.”

“Aye, it’s just hair—so you shouldn’t care if we cut it or not. You left your vanity back in Vesuvia, girl, whether you like it or not.” Violanda stares down her nose at her, and Ziah narrows her eyes. Violanda meets her glare head-on, with a straight spine and rigid shoulders. “We don’t make exceptions for those like you who think they’re too good for the rules. Now, come on. I want to get back to bed.”

Violanda puts her in a holding cell with two beds and four other women, one of whom takes one look at her and starts coughing up blood. Ziah steps back, lifting her neckline to cover her nose, acutely aware of the limited space between the four of them. None of the women try to introduce themselves to her, or seek out her name, which is just as well. Ziah sits with her back against the door, watching moonlight slide across the floor, listening to the women’s heartbeats.

When they are asleep once more, she rises, silent, and turns toward the door. She hovers her hand over the lock, closing her eyes, feeling the energies within, gently coaxing the gears to shift under her will. Soon, the lock _clicks_ , and she is able to push the door open. She closes it behind her, wincing when the hinges squeal, but the halls are empty, and the only heartbeats she can hear are distant, steady.

No one comes running.

Ziah tightens her scarf around her shoulders and navigates her way out of the Lazaret. There are no patrolling matrons or doctors; it is amusing, she thinks, distantly, that they depend on locks to keep their inmates contained.

When Ziah leaves the massive building and unlocks the gate she had been escorted through not two hours earlier, Tiamat laughs, low and rasping.

 _Well done, child_ , she says, after her chuckles have subsided. _Well done indeed._

Ziah allows a slight smile. The air, though stinking of ash and burnt flesh, somehow seems fresher than the air inside the Lazaret. She inhales deeply, turning her head toward the sea, scenting the salt in the air. After a moment, she sets on the western path. The islet is not very large; it is perhaps a twenty minutes’ walk to the other side of it. Ziah kicks off her sandals and wades into the ocean until the water laps at her thighs. Tiamat slithers into her cupped hands when she raises them to her shoulder.

Bending over, Ziah carefully deposits Tiamat into the ocean. Tiamat sighs in relief as she plops from Ziah’s hands to the water, scales lighting blue and green when she is reunited with the sea at last.

“Go,” Ziah says. “I don’t want to see you again until you’re Faust’s size.”

_Pah. I will visit in a moon’s turn._

“Only if you are Faust’s size by then,” Ziah repeats, firmly. She straightens, watching Tiamat dart through the water, a flash of bright blue scales that disappears under the midnight blanket. Once she is certain Tiamat is safely in the sea, she turns around and returns to shore, bending the water from her clothes and hair until she is once more dry.

With a final look to the ocean, she continues on her way, exploring the rest of the islet.

Before the Lazaret had been built, this islet had once been used for fishing, though it had been abandoned when Ziah had first come to Vesuvia. The workers who had constructed the Lazaret had destroyed the buildings on the coast, but had left the forest further inland untouched.

After several more minutes of walking, she comes across a wooden shack. It is one-room, bare of any and all essentials except a scorched stone hearth along the wall. There is a pile of junk in the corner—a broken broom, a metal rod with no distinguishable purpose, driftwood. Some parts of the roof are missing, but it is, overall, a functional structure.

Ziah turns in place, arms crossed before her, and nods to herself.

This is something she can work with.

—   —   —

Quaestor Valdemar decides to visit the Lazaret two days after they lose the patient Ilya had never had the chance to examine. Matron Violanda is frantic when she hears news that the Quaestor is on their way, instructing the collectors to search the city for the blue-haired woman who had disappeared and apparently taken a mattress from under their noses.

Ilya is left with finding the patients Violanda had deemed strongest, and taking them, one by one, to a holding cell, where Valdemar will collect them at the end of their visit and take them to the palace. His stomach turns, but he does what is asked of him.

A few of the more coherent patients ask them what is happening; he tells them only that they will go to the palace for further treatment, though his stomach turns at the lie. He knows their fate—he had specifically requested to be re-stationed at the Lazaret so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of holding the scalpel over screaming, writhing, _living_ people.

The Quaestor arrives on the third night after the woman’s disappearance, dressed impeccably as always, their mask concealing their mouth. Despite the darkness of the hour, and the dim light of the torches in the welcoming hall—where patients are registered prior to being assigned a dormitory—their red eyes still gleam brightly.

Ilya suppresses a shudder, wishing he had been allowed to not attend this meeting. But the Quaestor is the highest-ranked doctor in Vesuvia, a direct underling of the Count himself, and the Matron and Patron wouldn’t stand for anyone insulting the Quaestor by skipping their arrival.

The Quaestor says nothing as the Matron and Patron hand them their documents. Instead, they flip through the pages, and despite their hand motions somehow look like they’re standing absolutely still. Ilya hunches his shoulders when their head turns, trying to stay behind one of his coworkers.

“Matron,” they say. “Patient 4420. Name… Reyansh, Ziah. Bring her to me. The Count has a special interest in her welfare.”

The _Count_ was interested in her? Ilya can’t hide his wince, and is grateful for the doctor’s mask he’s wearing. _Poor woman,_ he thinks. He hadn’t worked with the Count prior to his leaving the palace, but he had heard plenty about his tantrums.

Matron Violanda swallows, clasping her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, Quaestor, but that particular patient is—well—missing.”

The Quaestor doesn’t even look up, still flipping through more records, somehow still standing eerily still. “Missing? Has the patient expired already? Disappointing.”

“N-No, Quaestor. Missing, as in… she disappeared the night she was registered.”

The Quaestor lowers their papers, tilting their head as they look at Violanda. Ilya looks away, swallowing hard, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He doesn’t see the Quaestor, but he hears their reply.

“I see. The Count will be most disappointed.”

“We have collectors searching the city,” Violanda is quick to assure them. “She won’t escape Vesuvia. Once she’s recaptured, we will bring her to you—to the Count—at once.”

“Escape Vesuvia?” the Quaestor repeats. “Matron. It is two miles from the Lazaret to the city’s docks. Did she take a gondola?”

“Er, no, but—”

“Then she is still on this islet. It is a mile long; I am sure she is somewhere. Search this islet, and bring patient 4420 to me. The Count is not a patient man, or an understanding one. I would hate to inform him it was _your_ incompetence responsible for losing his newest project.”

Violanda nods, swallowing, and she and the Patron select a handful of doctors, who scramble to leave the hall, presumably to look for whoever this Ziah is.

“In the meantime. Doctor 069.”

Ilya looks up reflexively, his gaze meeting that of Quaestor Valdemar’s. They have set their papers down, and their fingers are pressed together in front of their chest again, a peculiar habit that has never failed to unsettle him. Ilya swallows, hating the fact that most of his coworkers move out of the way to provide a clear line of sight for the Quaestor.

The Quaestor’s eyes crinkle in the corners, and he hates that he can perfectly recall the shape of their sharpened smile beneath their white mask. “Your colleagues have quite missed you at the palace. Ah, but now is not the time for reminiscence. I believe you collected the strongest patients of the Lazaret. Do bring me to them. I am _most_ interested in our latest batch of test subjects.”

Ilya shudders.

—   —   —

The moment he can—which ends up being a day later, when the Quaestor finally leaves with twenty-six plague patients, none of whom are 4420—he gets out of the stale, sickly air of the Lazaret, pulls off his uniform with such haste he almost tears the straps on his mask, and takes a walk.

It isn’t his night off, so he can’t leave the islet and unwind in Vesuvia itself, but a walk always clears his head. The moon is heavy and full in the star-studded sky, and after ten minutes of walking, he finally withdraws a Gabraldine dubloon and begins to flip it in his palm, trying to focus on the coin instead of what will happen to those twenty-six people.

The southern side of the islet has the highest altitude: it’s the only part of the islet with a cliffside, which overlook the ocean and a thin beach both. It is to this southern beach his feet take him. He sprawls in the sand, hanging his head between his knees, and tries to breathe.

They’d registered another two hundred people today, and fed just as many to the ovens—he flinches at his use of the crass, cruel nickname used between the doctors, he shouldn’t be so _cavalier_ about it. He’s never had to personally put people in the furnaces, never had to strip them of jewelry and clothes and watch the flames turn their sore-covered skin to ash. He’s only smelt the smoke, never had to smell the stench of pus and illness under the heat of flames.

He can’t decide if that would be worse than vivisecting living people in the dungeons.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, looking up, staring out over the gentle waves of the ocean. He rubs his gloved hand over sore, tired eyes. “What a nightmare.”

He had come here because he’d heard Doctor Satrinava was in town, and he had stayed because he wanted to help—but who is he helping, really? More and more are fed to the furnaces each day; every time he visits Vesuvia, the streets are a little emptier. Slicing open diseased but living flesh, checking shivering and naked bodies for rashes or pus-filled sores or bloody sclera—none of it had helped, and he’s been fighting the plague for a _year._

Granted, it hadn’t been so bad a year ago.

“Fuck,” he says again, rubbing his face. He’s exhausted, but he knows if he goes back to the Lazaret now, he won’t be able to sleep. The very walls themselves echo the moans and wails of the dying; whenever it is silent, those are the worst nights.

He looks up toward the cliffside, and pauses when he sees a faint silhouette in the darkness. He has fairly good vision, has always been a little better at seeing from a distance than anything near, but he isn’t certain it’s anything more than a trick of the night—

Until the shape jumps off the cliffside, and he watches it plummet into the ocean.

Ilya springs to his feet, adrenaline already kicking in, and within minutes both of his boots are off and he’s plunging into the water, hissing at the cold. He dives the moment his bare feet push off of sand and hit nothing, swimming as hard as he can toward the cliffs.

Once he’s nearby, he takes a deep breath and goes underwater, blinking through the sting in his eyes as he tries to make out the shape of whatever— _whoever_ —had jumped. The moonlight illuminates a little bit of water, but not much. Ilya sees nothing before his lungs begin to ache and he surfaces, gasping for another lungful of air before going back in.

He still sees nothing, and pushes himself down, down, turning his head in an effort to see more. But again, there’s nothing for his troubles—no body, no colors, not even a fish. He shakes his head, kicking his legs, but he sees a flash of blue scales before the water swirls around him, the current dragging him to the side.

He isn’t expecting the riptide, and the force with which it sweeps him underwater takes him by surprise. He kicks, straining for the surface, but can’t escape the sudden current. Lungs burning in his chest, he watches bubbles stream from his mouth and nose, rushing up toward the surface of the water.

A woman appears in his view, dark hair floating in long strands all around her. She stares at him, silver eyes—are they _glowing?_ —narrowing as she regards him. Ilya gestures to her, kicking, and the current eases, finally. He swims upward, toward the woman, and she withdraws. More bubbles stream from his mouth, and his lungs burn.

He thinks _wouldn’t my captain be ashamed of me right now—_

He opens his mouth, unable to breathe, and the woman presses her hand over his mouth. Instead of water, he feels _something_ exhale into his mouth, and with it comes a rush of fresh air that reminds him, fleetingly, of Nevivon. Pasha and Ilana and the grandmas, laughing around the fire. Doctor Satrinava grinning at him, hands on their hips, praising him for a job well done.

The woman pulls her hand away, and with a newfound strength Ilya swims his way to the surface. Gasping, he pushes his hair out of his face, blinking salt water from his watering eyes. The woman surfaces soon as well, hair slicked back, face gleaming in the moonlight. Odd, but—

If this woman is who he _thinks_ she is, there isn’t a trace of red in her sclera.

“What _are_ you?” he asks her, and the moment the words leave his mouth he wonders if he’s delirious. Can air deprivation cause deliriousness? He certainly _feels_ lightheaded.

The woman does not answer; she swims behind him, and Ilya grunts when he feels her arms encircle his chest. “Ha, now, now—we’ve, erm, we’ve only _just_ met, let’s, let’s not get _too_ familiar—”

She makes a disapproving sound behind him, and the last thing he feels is the heel of her palm striking him between the brows.

 _Sleep,_ a voice whispers in his mind, and he can’t help but obey.

—   —   —

He wakes on the beach.

The moon is exactly where he remembers it, but he is completely dry. The only evidence of his unexpected swim is his bare feet and his boots, lying discarded beside him. Ilya pushes himself up onto his elbows, and there the woman is, also completely dry, kneeling five feet away from him and watching him with an unreadable expression.

Now that he’s recovered from his near-drowning experience, he has the grace, at least, to be embarrassed. “I don’t think we’ve properly met,” he says, sitting up. “Doctor Julian Devorak, at your service. I do hope that jump wasn’t intentional?”

“It was,” she says, “but it was not for suicidal reasons, if that was your concern.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding and leaning back. “Thrillseeker, then? Or maybe you were just curious? Can’t say I blame you. I’ve jumped off my fair share of cliffs, myself, though none so high as that.” He nods toward the southern cliffs, then grins at her, holding out his hand. “Glad to see you still alive, Miss…?”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “Ziah.”

She does not shake his hand.

“Ziah, right. Well.” He settles on his back, taking a deep breath. “That was—that was a neat trick. In the water. You, ah, you’re a magician? I presume?”

He hopes the nervousness isn’t too evident in his voice, but by the way her expression twists, it probably is. _Damn_. What a terrible start.

“Yes. I find I must apologize for earlier. Things happened that were not meant to.” She glares at the ocean, as if expecting to see something. Ilya follows her gaze, but sees nothing but the waves.

“Oh, well. It’s all right.”

“It is not, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” She looks back at him, and he can’t help but stare at her. He can’t help but notice how _sharp_ she looks. Eyes too small and nose too large for her face, and doesn’t he know what _that’s_ like. A little feral-looking, if he’s being honest.

Dangerous, of course, like all magicians are.

He squints at her, eyes widening when he sees her eyes only have a thin ring of red around the irises.

She’s been on the Lazaret for a few days, and yet she doesn’t have the full symptoms. Somehow, she’s been fighting them off. Has the rash even appeared yet? The red eyes were the first symptom, soon followed by a rash, and then boils and sepsis and death. But if she hasn’t had her rash yet, and she’s had the plague for at least _four days_ —

He gets to his knees, shuffles closer to her. She stiffens, but he pays that no mind, too excited in the possibility. “How long have you had the plague?” he asks, eagerly—too eagerly? doesn’t matter—“Have you found something to treat it? Will you tell me what it is?”

“I have not treated anything,” she says, leaning away from him.

“Incredible,” he murmurs, then drops his gaze to scan her body for any evidence of illness—burst sores, hint of a rash, blood spots, _anything._ But her clothing is mostly layers, dark colors, hiding most of her skin.

He looks up to see her glaring at him, but he’s too elated to care. He bursts into laughter, running a hand through his hair, sitting back on his heels.

Ziah has lived past three days. Ziah is _surviving the plague,_ and she hasn’t even been _trying_ to medicate it in any way _._

It’s almost too good to be true, but the red around her eyes—real. Her aversion to being touched—sensible, as the rashes tend to make even the lightest and softest clothing uncomfortable. Her survival is _real_ , and the implications—

“ _Incredible,_ ” he says again, grinning at her, and her harsh expression softens in confusion. “You’re still alive! You’re a _miracle!_ What providence saved you, hm? Tell me, did you take anything before coming to the Lazaret—any teas, or herbs, or—”

_The Count has a special interest in her welfare._

His joy dies abruptly, and he stands up, brushing sand off his knees. Ziah stands as well, and the smile he offers her is decidedly more somber. “I should let you know,” he says, “the Lazaret staff is looking for you.”

“I am aware. Which is why you will remember none of this night.” She steps forward, eyes narrowed.

Remember none—

“Now, wait—wait just a minute,” he says, backing away and tripping over his boots. He catches himself, holding his hands up as if that will keep her at bay. It doesn’t; she crosses the sand easily, and grabs him by the front of his shirt.

“I do not know or trust you,” she says. When she lifts a hand toward his brow, he bats it away, wrenching himself from her hold. She’s tall, but not as tall as he, and he’s stronger besides.

(Has she had any experience holding down sobbing men as they are strapped to tables, begging to be spared the scalpel? Has she had to drag warriors sickened with plague from the cells beneath the Coliseum? Has she had to lift death-weighted corpses one by one into the gondolas, to be brought to the island and fed to the flame—

 _Damn it, Devorak, enough._ )

“Why—why—why would I tell them anything?” Ilya stammers, getting a handful of steps away from her and whirling around, holding one arm out to keep her away. “Look, you’re _alive_ , I won’t tell them because I know what’ll happen to you if you get caught.”

Ziah stops.

He holds his breath, swallowing hard. _Listen to me,_ he thinks, pleadingly.

“What will happen to me if I am found?” she finally asks.

“The Quaestor—the head doctor, only answers to Count Lucio himself—asked for you two days ago, _specifically._ They wanted to take you back to the palace. And, look, I know you don’t—you’ve no reason to trust me, I _know_ that, but the Quaestor runs experiments on people who’ve survived the plague past three days. They _torture_ those people. They’d torture you, too.”

“How do you know this?”

“Why,” Ilya says, allowing an ill-timed grin, “you’ll just have to trust me, of course.”

Ziah’s silver eyes narrow, still oddly bright in the darkness, and he swallows, feeling his face heat. Not one for humor, then, no matter how poorly timed. “Erm,” he says, looking away, “don’t you magicians have a, a truth—spell—thing? That you can cast? To see if I’m telling the truth, or my intentions are pure, some hogwash like that?”  

“Yes,” she says, approaching him. He takes a wary step back.

“Now, wait—how will I know you’re not just going to take my memories?”

Ziah exhales, long and slow, and then says utterly deadpan: “Why, you’ll just have to trust me, of course.”

Ilya bursts into laughter, despite himself, grinning down at her as she gets within an arm’s reach. “Ah, you’re a quick one,” he teases, and there, _just_ there, half-hidden beneath the shadow of the moon, a slight smirk. “ _Touché_. All right, then: have your way with me.”

Ziah grows closer, until she is nearly flush against his chest, staring intently at his heart. Ilya swallows, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his temple. “‘Have your way with me?’” she repeats, lifting red-lined eyes to his face.

“A turn of phrase,” he assures her. Ignoring the heat of his blush, he forces a cavalier grin, waggling an eyebrow just for good measure. She exhales through her nose, a sound that could _almost_ pass for laughter, and then she slips her hand into the vee of his shirt, finds the hidden pocket sewn into the shirt’s breast, and takes hold of his locket, pulling it out.

Ilya stiffens at once, resisting the urge to seize it from her grasp. He’s taken pains to hide his locket beneath his shirt, and the fact that Ziah had somehow known exactly where it was— _magician,_ he reminds himself with a trace of wariness—leaves him feeling like he’s just sunk his teeth in wet clay.

He waits for her to open it, to see the photographs of the family he’d left behind, but she merely holds it in the palm of her hand, an odd, distant look on her face. Her lips move, just slightly, and it looks like… like she is _talking_ to the locket, somehow.

Which should be impossible.

Shouldn’t it?

After several long moments, she blinks, the haze that had fallen over her features dissipating, and carefully returns his locket to his hidden breast pocket. Ilya pats it, just to be certain, and sighs in relief when it’s there. It feels solid, at least. Would she have been able to make a copy? Keep the real one for herself?

 _You’re being ridiculous,_ he thinks, but can’t shake his unease.

Ziah steps away from him, looking back toward the sea. She tilts her head, pulling the folds of her clothing tighter against herself.

“Well?” he asks, forcing his tone to sound light. “What’s your verdict?”

“I will trust you, Ilya Devorak,” she says, still looking to the sea. “For now.”

Before he can reply, she turns heel and walks back to the shadows of the forest—and as he watches, she somehow… vanishes. It looks like she is walking, and then it looks like the shadows warp around her, and then she is gone.

She is gone, and Ilya is left behind, wondering what the hell he has just stumbled into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i try to write julian his voice slips further and further away from my grasp


	6. two hearts as one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairing: asra/mc  
> warnings: reference to past abuse

She returns to Vesuvia three weeks before the Count’s birthday, in the middle of the dry season. She sees the silhouette of the city on the horizon, the palace rising above all other buildings, gleaming white and splendid in the sun. The rain falls in steady sheets, but a solid barrier of water shields her, keeping herself and the ground she walks upon dry.

With every step, she is aware of the irregular beat of her heart—an unfamiliar rhythm to which she has since adjusted since waking up with it a month ago. All she can think of, as she watches the sun rise over Vesuvia, are three things: Tiamat, Julian, and Asra.

Asra.

Her chest aches at the thought of him, a faint pain that has become intimately familiar to her over the past month.

She closes her eyes, grounding herself, listening to the call of the ocean and the rush of Vesuvia’s underground rivers. She breathes in, then out. In. Out. Balance here, as in all things. As there  _should_  be in all things.

Soon, the dull pain subsides, and she can walk once more. With a deep breath, she adjusts her scarf, drawing it down to drape across her shoulders, exposing the blue of her hair, and starts for the city.

Let Lucio’s hidden people see her hale and whole. Let him know she has returned to the sickened city he seeks to control absolutely.

Let Asra know that his spell has worked, for good or for ill.

She steps past the city gates just after the break of dawn, just after the storm has ended. Already she can see how much the plague has ravaged the slums built around the city center and the palace. It has worsened with time: murky, red-tinged water rises over the burst canal levees, swamping the streets up to her knees, and the houses somehow seem gray and more run-down. The vampire eels remain in the deeper parts of the canal, thankfully, but Ziah still must bend the water to make it part for her. It is still too early for most Vesuvians, so there are none in the streets to see her walking between two hip-high rows of still water as if walking between two garden walls.

The shop is dark and empty; there are no heartbeats within, no sense of life. She considers visiting Muriel’s house, hidden deep in the woods, far from where Lucio could ever reach him again, then decides against it once she steps to the threshold and senses Asra’s magic. There are the protective wards, of course, but Asra has adopted her own designs and shaped them into something new, darker than before. She can sense the curse hidden deep within the cross-me-not spell ingrained into the wood.

 _What are you?_ she asks it, feels the energy curling within the spell.

 _We do not know you_ , it hisses back, speaking to her in the language of her tarot.  _You are not welcome. Touch us, and your hand will wither and blacken, and turn to ash soon afterward._

Ah. So he has turned to curses, then. Effective, though disheartening. She has always wanted his heart to stay gentle, as it had been years ago, before Muriel’s slavery, before Lucio, before the plague. She still remembers the day she had asked him not to lose his soft heart.

But she has always known that had been but a wish, and an impossible one at that.

 _Turn back!_ the curse hisses. _Turn back!_

She sighs and overrides the spell. The curse fights back, of course, screaming in her ears all the while as it tries to inflict itself upon her and she denies it. Asra’s magic has grown more powerful, more self-aware, and those are good, excellent, even. But his experience is pathetically limited compared to hers; she does not even break a sweat as she overwhelms his curse with her willpower, expunging it from the door and the house’s front walls; it had grown to cover the windows, much as ivy grows to cover entire buildings, which means it has gone too long unchecked.

She roots it out like a weed in the garden. It goes, screaming, and takes the more benign cross-me-not spell with it, leaving the house bare and unprotected. She will have to redraw the patterns in the sacred mixture soon. But now, she focuses on unlocking the door from the other side, listening to the energies as they respond to her gentle coaxing. Soon, the door unlocks itself at her urging and swings open for her.

Dust motes swirl in the air at the disturbance caused by her entrance, though there remains a thick layer of dust on every surface. Tiamat’s saltwater fountain has run dry, and her heart aches at the knowledge that it might never have another inhabitant. The display cases have been repaired, and her throat closes when she sees that her egg collection has been maintained—placed in an oak box lined in red velvet. The space between the sea wyrm and the desert wyvern’s eggs remains empty, waiting to be filled once again. The eggs themselves are pristine, untouched, and the box that hosts them also boasts a curse much like the one she’d excised from the door; she had not placed it.

A soft sigh escapes her, and she turns her attention to the upper levels. Her findings are much the same—empty rooms, and dusty furniture, and a stale smell brought about by neglect and abandonment. Asra’s clothes are all gone, and he had taken much of her gemstone jewelry—hematite and citrine, blue fluorite and amethyst, more. Gemstones that, properly charged, would help ease mental stress, and promote concentration and memory. He had also taken several of her agate rings, for luck.

She takes a deep breath and finds two black tourmaline pendants buried in the leather bag, draping them over her head. Then she roots through the dressers and niches until she finds her eucalyptus leaves and sets them in a small bowl, setting them alight and letting the smoke fill her lungs. She hums a sea shanty as she works, sweeping the floors, folding and putting away blankets, opening the drapes and the windows, dusting every surface in the house.

It is time to start anew.

By late afternoon, the house is cleaned and organized, as if it had never been abandoned. But the icebox is empty, and she is hungry—though she cannot find her messenger bag, charmed to hold an endless amount of items, no matter where she looks. This, too, Asra must have taken. So she upends a basket full of lavender soap and perches it on her hip as she leaves the store, locking it behind her, and heads to the floating markets, scooping up a handful of small wet rocks.

Though it is no longer raining, the clouds are thick and dark above the market, and she senses another storm on its way. She gives rocks charmed as golden coins to the merchants, filling her basket with a week’s worth of fruit and fish and vegetables, as well as tea. It is more than a single person would ever need. She lifts her eyes to the palace, always visible above the city, and wonders if she will remain alone for long.

She wonders if Asra has sensed her return.

She brushes away the thought, turning away and heading for the central square. It is crowded, full of music, though there are far less people here than there usually would be on a Sunday afternoon. The shadows of the buildings that surround the square seem more warped, seem reddish in color, especially around the palace. Odd.

She is in the middle of frowning at the glittering palace, trying to make sense of the reddish aura that oozes from its pristine walls, when she hears Asra’s heartbeat. At once, her head turns, following the beacon of his magic; when the crowd’s flow ebbs, parting for her like a river, she sees him sitting cross-legged in a hole in a wall, giving a reading to someone. A throng of pedestrians cross in front of her, hiding him from her sight. Yet that is no matter.

His first lesson had been patience; his second, listening. She shall see how well he remembers both.

She plants her feet, steadying herself, and keeps her gaze on the place where she had last seen him, concealed by throngs of passers-by. “Asra,” she whispers, no louder than a murmur reserved for the darkest of nights.

When there is another break in the crowd, the customer is gone, and he is sitting up, arm resting over his knee, eyes narrowed as he searches the crowd. She whispers his name again, keeping her gaze on his face, and watches as his eyes snap to her. At once, his expression slackens in shock, and he scrambles to his feet.

“Ziah,” he whispers. Though they are on opposite ends of the square, she can hear him as clearly as if he had stood before her. She smiles, allowing her pride to show in the curl of her lips. Asra stands, not uncertain of himself, but unsure of her reality.

She does not move. Slowly, achingly slowly, he approaches her, weaving through foot traffic until they are face-to-face. She shifts the basket so there is nothing between them, leaving him free to reach up, his hand hovering above her cheek, just shy of touching. She can hear his heartbeat racing, a hummingbird’s beat beneath his breath.

His fingertips touch her cheek, and an electric thrill runs through her. “You’re here,” he says, sounding as if he cannot believe his own words. “The spell worked.”

“Yes,” she says, quietly.

He exhales, short and sharp, the sound betraying his relief and his longing all at once. He surges forward, wrapping his arms around her neck in a tight embrace. She drops her basket, letting its contents spill across the square’s cobblestones, and holds him close, turning her head and pressing her nose to his temple. He smells of sweat and sea, dirt and dust, but most of all he smells of home.

His shoulders are shaking, his breaths ragged and unsteady in her ear. She can feel his aura reaching toward hers—an unconscious action on his part, seeking her out for comfort and reassurance, and betraying his joy and longing and fear all at once. It had not been nearly so defined when she’d left for the Lazaret.

She can feel others’ eyes on her, but cannot bring herself to care, not even when she thinks of how Lucio is sure to know about this by the end of the day. All she wishes to concentrate on is the feel of Asra in her arms, and how their hearts beat together in perfect rhythm, two halves of one whole.

“It worked,” he whispers, shaken. “It… you’re really here.”

“Yes,” she soothes, one hand lifting to cup the back of his head. She lets her fingers weave through his silksoft, pearlescent hair. Lets herself hold him close and take comfort in the press of his body against hers. “Yes. I’m here, sweet. It’s me.”

—  —  —

He agrees to return to the shop with her, after they have collected and cleaned their items. Faust is ecstatic to see her, wiggling in surprise and nuzzling under her chin, always eager for more scritches. Asra never looks away from her, never loses the wonder in his eyes, though it had been _his_ spell that had brought her back. They pause only once, to buy pumpkin bread at the bazaar situated in the palace’s shadow. Afterward Asra takes her through a long path, through alleys that are not flooded with diseased water, and she does not comment on the black and indigo draperies that cloak the windows of most houses and tenements.

The plague still ravages the city, it seems. But Asra is as yet hale and whole, and that gladdens her. He takes her through alleys she has not walked in her decade of living in this city, through shadowed corridors and secret alcoves. When they finally reach the shop, Asra glances at her, eyes wider than normal; he can sense that his curse has been removed. She says nothing, does nothing. It was she who had provided him the means for such things: she will not blame him for using tools freely given.

He inhales as he walks into the shop. He is taller than she remembers; perhaps reaching her forehead, now, rather than her chin. His shirt moves, and Faust pokes her head out from the back of his shirt, eyes bright and red and clear. She, too, has grown, to a healthy, strong size. Tiamat had been that size about fifty years ago.

Before the sheddings became more frequent.

She swallows, banishing all thoughts of her oldest friend, and walks past him. He looks lost in thought, brows quirked. When she stops and looks at him, he does not even notice. She can sense a newfound coldness within him, a detachment that had not been there before her incarceration on the island. She wonders if his spell had taken that from him, or perhaps this change had occurred when she was on the Lazaret.

“Asra,” she says. He looks back at her, features smoothing, lips curving into a slight smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “Lost in thought.”

She holds out her hand and he takes it, stepping forward and following her up the stairs into the kitchen. “I bought lapsang souchong,” she says, glancing at him from over her shoulder. His entire face lights up as he smiles, cheeks dimpling, and her heart flips painfully in her chest. The sight is heartening: that, at least, had not changed.

Faust slithers out of his shirtsleeve to coil around his arm; she has grown large enough that she stretches the length of his arm, from his bicep to his wrist. Ziah smiles at her, careful not to show her teeth, and Faust’s tongue flickers out in greeting. Ziah reaches out and scratches her under her chin, wondering if she has learned how to petrify other creatures yet. That would come with time, she supposes.

She asks the salamander to light the fire and sets the tea kettle on the stovetop. “What would you like for lunch?” she asks, taking out the foodstuffs from the basket. She’ll have to run most of them under the tap, anyway, just to be certain that she had washed off all of the dirt from the market.

But when she turns the tap on, the water comes out rusty-red instead of clear. She recoils in surprise, then lunges forward, turning off the tap and lifting some of the red-tinged water up into the air for better inspection. A large bubble of water hovers above her palm, quivering, threads of orange-red swirling in its center.

The floorboards creak behind her as Asra stands. “Not plague,” he says behind her, after a beat. “Just pollution. The city… so much of it has gone to ruin. Collapsed infrastructure. Broken roads, busted levees. Corrupted wells. Nadi’s trying, but… the plague’s taken anyone who can even try to fix it.”

She thinks of the flooded slums upon her re-entry to Vesuvia, and turns her wrist, guiding the reddish taint out of the water to pour itself down the drain, leaving the orb of water above her hand pure and clear. She guides the remainder of the water into a bowl, then puts the pot under the tap and, after it is filled from the brim, begins to purify it.

Asra does not move behind her. She can sense his tension; she can hear the rapid, nervous pulse of his heart. But she stays silent. He had learned to speak frankly with her, to voice his questions rather than bury them under caverns of self-doubt and insecurity. He will speak when he is ready.

Her belief is not misplaced.

He takes a breath, then exhales. Balanced. “I know Lucio threatened you. I know that’s… that’s why you left. Why you lied.”

Ziah guides the taint of rust and pollution down the drain and sighs, resting her hands on the countertops. After a moment, she turns, meeting his gaze. They look like lepidolite, tonight; her favorite shade of purple, now. He watches her carefully, analyzing her expression for any sign of emotion. She takes a breath and leans against the counter, lifting her chin.

“He did not threaten me,” she says. “He threatened _you,_  Asra.”

His face darkens into something stormy and furious. He reaches out, his hands gripping her biceps before smoothing down her arms and taking her hands in his. He stares into some far-off space with narrowed eyes, jaw clenching and unclenching, even as he intertwines their fingers.

“He threatened you,” he says at last, “to get to me. And Muriel. He—he said I had to tell him where Muriel was or he would hurt you.” His eyes flit away to the corner of the room, away from her. His hands tremble in hers. “I chose to keep Muriel safe.”

She had not known that, but she understands, and cannot fault him. Though she can detect no shame in his voice, no regret, she squeezes his hands anyway, lifting the backs of them to her mouth so she may press kisses to his knuckles. His breath catches as he looks back up at her.

“Lucio did not touch me,” she says. Though it had been not for lack of trying on his part. She kisses his knuckles again, choosing to keep that to herself, and holds his gaze.

“You may release that guilt,” she tells him. His shoulders bow forward with his sigh, and he looks as if he wishes to say more, but—the tea kettle steams, shrill and piercing, and they are drawn apart. He returns to the table as she pours them both cups of lapsang souchong. When it is ready, she settles across from him, pressing his cup into his hands. Asra says nothing as he raises it to his lips, taking a sip. Faust lifts her head from his shoulder, sliding to rub herself under his chin, and he smiles slightly as he lifts his cup, offering it to her.

Ziah watches Faust drink from the tea, her cheeks bulging with every swallow, until Asra speaks. “I almost killed him,” he admits, meeting her gaze. Faust lifts her head, moving in a slow glide around him, coiling around his upper arm and shoulders, now. “When I found out what he did to you—I almost killed him. I would’ve, if… a friend hadn’t stopped me.” He stops, biting his lip, fingers curling around his cup. She does not know who this person is, but she will have to thank them later. Asra has disrupted the balance of life and death enough. She does not want him tempting powers greater than himself, or even her.

She reaches forward, clasping her hand over his—a touch she never would have initiated before. But Asra reminds her of this world’s importance, and Julian had brought the colors back into her world, and she will stay detached no longer. His skin is cool, cooler than she remembers. He turns his palm to lace their fingers together, his brow still furrowed.

“What is it?” she asks.

He squeezes her hand, lips curling down. He pauses just long enough to take a long drink of his tea. “I have to go back to the palace. I haven’t been there in days, and—if I don’t go, then there are people he’ll lash out at in my place. People who don’t deserve it.”

“Then I will accompany you.”

His reaction is immediate. His eyes snap up to hers and his hand tightens around his cup. “ _No_. I won’t—Lucio—”

“Lucio will know I am here by the end of the night,” she says. “If he does not know already.”

“No. Please.” His throat jerks in a swallow, and his gaze slides to some far corner of the room as a flush spreads over his face. “Mizi, I know you don’t need it, but let me keep you safe. He’s hurt you enough.”

Her chest aches at his use of her nickname. She has not heard it in years. “He has hurt  _you_ enough,” she says. “I will no longer stand idly by while this city suffers under his wrath.”

Asra looks at her, expression softening, and she wonders if he remembers their conversation years ago, when she had refused to help Muriel escape the Coliseum.  _It is not my place_ , she had said then. Her left hand aches, but she ignores the pain. That pain is past, and it is time to start anew.

“It’s not worth it,” he finally says, gaze sliding to their clasped hands. “He won’t last much longer, and he knows it. Rumors are that he won’t even last until his birthday masquerade. So we just… need to wait it out.  _I_ just need to wait it out, and then we’ll be okay.”

“Do not shut me out, Asra,” she says, narrowing her eyes. He clenches his jaw, but keeps his gaze lowered. “I do not need you to keep me safe.”

“And I don’t need you to keep me safe,” he retorts, eyes narrowing to slits. His shoulders sag and he pulls away from her, running a hand through his hair before finishing the rest of his tea. He pours himself another cup, and she waits for him to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to snap. Just… I can handle Lucio, whatever he does. I’m not the kid you met eight years ago anymore.” He looks back at her, jaw set, determined to remain unswayed.

She has never considered him a child, only _young_ , but—this goodness has not changed. This desire to protect, to help, to shield. That is still his to hold, and hers to cherish.

“And how far you have come since that day,” she whispers, letting her pride color her tone. “I am so proud of you, Asra.”

His lips part in surprise, and he clears his throat, offering a small, closed-mouth smile.

“The Hjallan festival of lights is this weekend,” he says, after a long, comfortable silence spent drinking their tea. “You came back just in time. Do you… do you wanna go?”

She looks up, something in her softening at the thought. The Hjallan festival of lights—the only festival, out of hundreds that Vesuvia celebrates, that she has ever attended. There were other festivals of lights, but the Hjallans… she thinks of the ocean, speckled with the reflections of gleaming lanterns, and Tiamat, and Julian.

Her heart aches.

“Yes,” she says. “I will show you why it means so much to me, this year.”

His smile widens. She knows he cherishes any scrap of knowledge of her past, though she had told him everything in her letters to him, written during the Lazaret. He is curious, her Asra, and ever hungry for new knowledge.

“I look forward to it,” he says, rising to his feet. She helps him clean up the ceramic cups. When he reaches for his bag, she stops him.

“Wait,” she bids. “Let me recharge the sigils, first.”

His expression softens, and he reaches up to stroke her cheek. “They’re fine,” he tells her. “I recharged them yesterday.”

“Please,” she asks. “It would give me peace of mind.”

After a moment, Asra nods, then steps back, tossing his bag onto their couch and shrugging off his long vest. He grips the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, revealing his bare chest to her. She watches his face, searching for any discomfort, but there is none. Slowly, her gaze trails down, to the lines of white and blue magic that wind across his body. She had drawn many of them herself, in the sacred mixture of dragonlily ink and salt water. Yet there are others, as well, that are borne of his own magic. The sacred patterns wind over his wrists, his arms, and, most alarming of all, his throat.

If Lucio had touched him—

She traces one over his right breast that is less vibrant than the others, more a greyish tone than anything, and he shivers at the press of her fingertip upon his skin. His hand lifts, gripping her wrist. When she charges it, sending her magic through him to settle atop his skin, a full-body shudder runs through him. He tilts his head up, eyes half-lidded, and it takes everything within her not to close the distance between them, to kiss him as she has imagined for the past month.

She will not be selfish in this.

“I,” he starts, his voice a whisper. His thumb presses against the pulse point in her wrist, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat under tender skin. “I forgot what your magic felt like.”

Ziah smiles, ever careful to hide her teeth. “What does it feel like?”

“A nice bath,” he says. She raises her eyebrows and he smiles. “No, it’s true. Warm water, a little soapy. And light. It’s nice.”

“Soapy,” she repeats, dubious.

“Has anyone ever told you what your magic feels like?” Asra asks, eyebrows raising. She purses her lips, eyes narrowing, and his grin widens. “Then who’s to say it’s not soapy?”

She can say nothing to that. Asra laughs, cheeks dimpling, and her annoyance slips away, dissipating under the brightness of his smile. “I do make soap,” she admits, which only makes him laugh harder. She charges another faded sigil, making his breath catch and his laughter stutter to a stop, and after a moment he takes her hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing her inner wrist, his gaze lingering on her face.

Soon afterward, he kisses her fingertips and lets her hands fall, turning to the couch to retrieve his clothes. She watches the muscles of his back shift as he pulls his shirt back on, the sigils glowing through the fabric. He shrugs on his vest and lifts the strap of her travelling bag—his, now, charmed to hold an endless quantity of items—up and over his shoulder. He turns back to her, cupping her face between his hands, and she closes her eyes, inhaling slowly.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he promises, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Don’t worry about me, please.”

“Very well,” she says. “So long as you return to me, hale and whole.”

“Always,” he vows, stepping away. He offers her a brief, fleeting smile, adjusting his bag before squeezing her hand and turning away. She watches him go down the stairs, settling slowly on the couch. She glances outside, to a sky who still bears a bright sun, and smoothes her hands down her loose pants.

There is work to do.

She ventures out into the slums, into abandoned neighborhoods that have been flooded to the knees with reddish-brown water, and carefully uses magic to usher the excess water out, guiding it into old currents that lead out to the ocean, purifier of all. Slowly the water begins to recede, sinking from her knees to her calves to her ankles. She finds wells that have been corrupted with pollution and plague and purifies them, then drinks from them herself to ensure their cleanliness.

She moves through the slums and eventually comes close enough to the docks, to the Lazaret, that she can smell the smoke of the pits—it seems they have given up treatment and have resolved to simply burn the bodies. Julian would have hated that, she thinks, and lifts her gaze to the palace, sitting on a hilltop far above the poor, gleaming and safe. There is no red haze when she looks at it in the twilight.

By the time she returns to the shop, late at night, she reeks of stagnant water and smoke and the illness of the slums. Asra is not home. She peels off her clothes, noting how her sweat makes them stick to her skin, and fills the copper bath with rust-red water. She finds a cooking pot and deposits the rust and pollution inside, leaving purified water behind that she heats with a gesture.

Asra returns when she is in the middle of her bath, scrubbing her skin with rosemary and peppermint-scented soap. She can see the tired lines in his face, the exhaustion that sits heavy under his eyes, the weariness tucked behind his lips when he smiles. In silence, she offers her hand to him, and he nods. Wordlessly, he strips and joins her in the bath, settling behind her with a sigh. He reaches out, beginning the silent task of undoing her braid. When it is undone, when her hair is a long, straight curtain that clings to her back, he presses wet fingers to the nape of her neck, gathering her hair there. He waits, and she swallows, but says nothing.

“Can I?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

He exhales, the sound of it trembling out of him, and carefully pushes the half-wet mass of her hair over her shoulder, revealing the scars that stretch along the length of her back. He presses his fingertips to her shoulders, above where the scars begin, and she tenses, waiting. But he does not move until her body relaxes, accepting the weight of his gaze and the inevitability of his touch.

“Can I?” he asks again.

“Yes,” she whispers, the allowance almost inaudible even to herself. Asra leans forward, kissing her bare shoulder, and she closes her eyes, ignoring how her hands shake, hidden away in the water.

 _That pain is past_ , Tiamat had said, years ago.  _There is nothing to fear here._

There is nothing to fear. She reminds herself of this as Asra’s fingers gently trace invisible paths down her shoulderblades, to the space between and below, where her skin is littered with thick gouges, red and ugly. He traces the edges of her scars, feeling how her skin had hardened to a leathery, inflexible texture. She hears him swallow, feels his magic wash over her, trying to heal something that is too old and too painful to accept it.

“Don’t,” she bids, quietly. His magic recedes at once, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to her throat. His chest presses against her back, and she stiffens further at the strange feeling of soft skin against her scars. It has been so long since her back has been touched—if at all. She cannot remember.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I know it was a long time ago. But I’m sorry. You never deserved that.”

Her instinctive reply is, of course, _yes, I did_. She had not listened to her betters. She had forgotten her place, multiple times. She had acted out of turn, and endangered others for her own benefit, or so she was told. But instead of protesting, her eyes slide shut and she takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In all things, there must be balance.

When her heart does not feel so unsteady, when Asra’s matching heartbeat is not racing in her ears and the roaring call of the ocean is quieted, she turns her head. He sits up slightly, hands curving over the tops of her arms.

“I love you,” he says. It is not his first admission of his feelings, and, she suspects, it will not be his last. But her heart softens, aching with the force of it, the _truth_ of it. “I love you so much, Mizi.”

Her throat closes, and she takes a deep breath through her nose when she feels his hand trail down once more, tracing the gouges in her back, a dozen small canyons carved into her skin. She fights the rising panic, the old, old urge to flinch away from any touch on her back. He kisses her throat again and exhales, withdrawing his touch. She licks her lips, trying to think of something to say, and finding nothing. Her hair pools out around her hip, floating in the water, a dark blue inkwell that spreads over the surface of the bath.

Eventually, Asra reaches over and takes from her limp hands the bar of rosemary and peppermint soap. He hums a sea shanty under his breath as he begins to clean her of the stink and dirt of the slums. He handles her with care, dragging the soap in circles over her chest and shoulders, avoiding her back. She leans back against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut, and he kisses her temple as he bends the water of the tub, lifting it up into a curving wave and letting it gently cascade down her body, taking with it any soapy residue on her skin.

“That’s what you feel like,” he tells her, and she opens her eyes. Asra cups fogged water in his hands, and she holds her hand under his. He spreads his fingers and the water rushes out, into her waiting palm. It runs over her hand and disappears into the rest of the bathwater. She is left bringing her hands together, rubbing the warm residue between her palms.

“See?” he asks, and she feels his smile against her shoulder. “Soapy.”


	7. slow hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!super duper nsfw!!
> 
> pairing: asra x mc, allusions to past julian x asra and julian x mc  
> warnings: reference to past abuse
> 
> takes place after ch. "two hearts as one"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tropes featured: cunnilingus, praise kink, touch starved (they're vanilla beans don't judge)

They walk back to the shop hand-in-hand, the memory of the festival still imprinted on the backs of their lids. The moonflowers woven into Ziah’s hair tinkle with her every step, ringing like gentle, wafting bells. Asra’s hand is warm in hers, their fingers intertwined, and in the gas lamps’ light he shines like liquid gold. The gold chandelier and stud earrings he wears catches the light, as does the gilt on his eyelids, but it is his hair—pearly, but sheened in gold in this light—that steals her breath.

She cannot remember when she has last felt like this—alive, and aware, and a participant in the world rather than a mere observer.

For so long she had been cast adrift, disconnected from the rest of the world, as if she was stuck underwater while the rest of society lay above the surface. As the world changed, as it moved forward and replaced old with new, she had only sunk deeper, the surface retreating from her further and further every year.

It had only gotten worse after the dragons went extinct, years and years ago; the first of the four great serpent races to disappear from the earth, leaving three left. That was when she had stopped reaching out to people, when she stopped letting them reach out to her, when she had sunk so deeply her heels had rooted to the rocky ocean floor. When the basilisks had been hunted to extinction as well, she had left the cities and found refuge in the Scintillant Waste, Tiamat by her side.

She had emerged from the Waste to a world of gunpowder and rifles rather than arrows and swords; a world where steam-powered ships of steel and iron destroyed wooden ships to splinters; a world where houses had a reliable source of clean water, and a gas-fueled light worked better and more reliably than a thousand candles.

Only Tiamat had been her constant. Only Tiamat had kept that silent ocean from swallowing her whole.

Her throat closes at that thought.

Now that Tiamat has disappeared, she realizes, the wyrms are likely extinct as well—truly extinct, for Tiamat had been too old to lay eggs and revive the race. That only leaves the wyverns; the last of the four great serpents. Thousands upon thousands of years of proud existence, reduced to a handful of surviving creatures.

“What are you thinking about?” Asra asks. His voice draws her from her thoughts, roots her in the present moment. She glances down to see him smiling up at her.

It was that smile, she knows, that had begun to bring her back. He had swum a thousand leagues to the depths in which she dwelled, alone and detached from the world, and taken her hand.

 _Look_ , his soul had called to her, cajoling and sweet. _Look at how beautiful this world is._

And she had listened. Miraculously, she had listened.

“Ziah?”

Ah. She still has not answered his question.

Ziah draws to a stop, and Asra does as well, the easy smile fading a bit as he looks at her. He reaches for her left hand but Ziah lifts it instead, brushing the swell of his lower lip with her thumb. His purple eyes lid at once, and she feels his breath against the pad of her thumb.

She does not think of the great serpents, or Tiamat, or the relentless pull of the ocean on her soul. In this moment, bathed in orange lamplight, Asra drips gold, and his aura shines brighter than any sun. She leans down and he surges up to meet her, kissing her eagerly, his hands holding the back of her head, threading through her braid and threatening to disrupt the moonflowers he had so carefully woven into her hair.

When they part, she sways toward the empty space where he had once been, his kiss awakening a yawning hunger within her. Julian had made her greedy for touch—expectant of it, even—and now she cannot be sated. She has gone centuries without human touch; she aches for it now.

“When we return to the house,” she whispers, her lips brushing his with every word, each syllable its own kiss, “I will love you as you deserve. If you wish it.”

“You’ll— _oh_. _Oh._ ” He grins, so widely his eyes become slits of delight, slivers of purple surrounded by gold and kohl. “Yes. Okay. Yes, very much.”

He tugs her down the street, laughing, and the sound of it is infectious. She does not laugh with him, but she smiles until her cheeks hurt, and right now she cannot bring herself to care about her crooked teeth—several times Asra draws back to kiss her, eagerly, joyfully, the thrum of the festival music still in his veins and the moon aglow in his hair. Their hearts beat as one, and with his hand solid and warm in hers, she lets him guide her through the alleys until their shop comes into view.

Asra does not even bother to light the gas lamps inside—he blows into his palms, cupped over his mouth, and lights stream out, bathing the room in a pale, shimmering glow. He turns back to her, a figure of flaxen gold, and distantly she wonders what he would look like crowned in laurels, as the Aransi crown marble statues of their gods.

 _Look,_ she thinks.  _How beautiful this world is._

“What is it?” Asra asks, drawing closer, a mischievous smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. Ziah smiles, close-lipped, and lets him draw her close, lets him grasp her chin between thumb and forefinger and pull her down for another kiss. When they part, inhaling as one, his eyes are lidded, dilated pupils almost swallowing the plum purple of his eyes.

“Upstairs,” she says, kissing his cheek. He nods, taking her right hand, and offers her a sly smile before heading for the staircase. The lights follow them, bobbing like the glow of faeries on the darkest winter nights, all the way up to the attic. Faust’s pillow is empty. She stills, frowning, and Asra wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“I sent her to the palace,” Asra says. “She’s keeping an eye on things.”

“I see,” she says, but before she can dwell on it further, Asra pushes down one of the sleeves of her shirt, exposing smooth skin to the cool summer air. At once, his mouth is there, tongue laving over her skin before biting gently down and sucking hard. Her breath catches and she swallows, thickly, tilting her head to the side, letting him have easier access.

Asra’s exhale sounds like a moan as he presses himself closer, his chest against her back, her rear flush against the cradle of his hips. His hands smooth down her sides to rest on her waist, then lower to her hips, fisting the soft scarlet fabric of her shin-length skirt. It’s slitted to the thigh, and his breath catches hard in his throat when his hands venture lower and brush over bare skin.

“Asra,” she says, throat almost too dry to speak. She takes his right hand in hers, intertwining their fingers, and guides it under the soft, wispy fabric of her skirt. She slides his hand over the covered mound of her, closing her eyes when he groans against her throat, hips jerking forward to grind against her. His fingertips press hard against the apex of her sex, and she gasps, shivering, a prickling of heat running in a sensuous rush from her toes to the very top of her scalp.

“How do you want me?” Asra asks, voice rough. He’s still grinding against her, leaving her trapped between his hand and his hips. She can barely think, almost overwhelmed with him, hot and dizzy from his touch. She swallows as he bites down on a fresh batch of skin, sucking gently, sure to leave another mark behind. When she doesn’t answer, he pulls his hand away, and she stifles her whine as it moves to her inner thigh. His thumb strokes her stretch marks before his fingers curve and dig in, gripping the meat of her thigh. “Ziah?”

“Bed,” she finally rasps, throat and mouth parched dry. He pulls away from her at once, and she blinks, trying to collect herself. She steadies herself on the stairway railing, turning toward the bed where Asra sits. “I’m—I’m getting water. I want you naked when I return.” He laughs, lifting his hands toward his ears, but stops when she shakes her head. “No, keep the earrings, and the gilt. Everything else goes.”

He nods, a smirk on his face, and she cannot resist closing the distance between them, from leaning down and tilting his chin up and kissing him until he moans into her mouth. When she pulls away, she leaves him flushed, panting, a red lip caught between his teeth. His eyes are dark and hungry, nearly smoldering in their intensity, and the look he gives her sends a shiver of liquid heat through her that pools between her legs.

“Siren,” she whispers, thumbing his red lower lip. He kisses the pad of her thumb, hooded eyes locked on her face. “I’ll be back.”

She takes an empty flower vase from the overflowing dresser-top, once full of tithonias from the market, and brings it downstairs. It takes longer than she would like, purifying the water that comes from the tap, because all she can think of is Asra waiting for her upstairs. Finally, she finishes her task, and with trembling hands pulls two earthenware mugs from the cupboard. She bends the water to keep it from sloshing over the rim of the flower vase as she brings it back up to the attic.

Asra had lit the gas lamps in her absence; the little faerie lights have been banished back to the other realm. He lies stretched out on his stomach, his cheek propped on his crossed forearms, watching her through lidded eyes. Ziah meets his gaze and walks to the dresser next to the bed, setting down a mug before clearing space on the dresser, knocking over trinkets and slips of paper. Asra reaches out as she lowers the flower vase to the dresser-top, his hand smoothing up the back of her bare thigh. She startles, unused to the touch, and glances over to see Asra grinning at her, utterly unapologetic, his dimple a shadow etched into the curve of his cheek.

“You look so beautiful,” he says. Her throat closes up and, for a moment, she finds herself speechless.

“ _You_ look beautiful,” she finally counters, and his expression slackens in surprise, even as his fingers flex, curving around the back of her thigh. Oh, if he doesn’t know how loved he is, how beautiful, how wonderful—she will be sure to fix that. Soon. She pours herself a glass of water as his hand travels up, curving over her rear. His fingertips run over the edge of her underwear, so casually intimate she cannot stop her shiver.

“Silk?” he asks. She nods, tossing him a sly grin over the rim of her glass, a grin he returns. “Ooh, fancy.” He props himself up on his elbow, leaning forward and kissing the skin exposed by her skirt. He pulls his hand away from her ass to hook his fingertips under the waistband of her skirt. When she nods, he reaches out with his other hand and pulls her skirt and underwear down in one gesture, leaving her only in her blouse.

“Do you know the myth behind the festival, Asra?” she asks, after taking a long drink of her water. He makes a noise of dissent, his mouth traveling from her knee to the middle of her thigh, lips mothwing-light.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, leaning back on one palm, the other curved around her inner thigh, tantalizingly close to her heat. The angle of his body allows a glimpse at him: his cock is half-hard, nestled among a thatch of wiry hairs as pearlescent and soft-looking as the hair on his head.

Ziah finishes her water and sets the glass down, gently batting his hands away. She pushes on his shoulders and he goes down easily, earrings clanging as his head hits the pillow. He is golden under her, drenched in it, radiant as the sun, and so beautiful her half of his heart aches fiercely in her chest. She straddles his hips, smiling slightly when his hands immediately go to her legs, curving over her thighs. When he tries to rock her against him, she stays still, and he bites his lip to muffle his groan.

“So impatient,” she murmurs, and he laughs.

“Only for you,” he says. “Tell me the story.”

“The solar goddess, Sunna, had never felt love before,” she whispers to him, the heels of her palms sliding smooth and slow up his chest. She savors every twitch of his muscles under her hands, the sight of his tongue snaking over his lower lip before he bites it—so like Julian, and yet not (but no, she will not think of Julian here, she will not pollute those old memories or these new ones)—how the lamplight catches on the gilt on his eyelids. “Not until she lay eyes on Ingrid, a beautiful shepherdess. Ingrid loved Sunna all of her life; at Ingrid’s request, Sunna melted the northern glaciers, flooding the land and creating the island that would become Hjalle. This flood created new life, and from this new life came the world as it is today.”

She begins to rock against him, and he groans, squeezing her thighs. She drapes herself over him, perfumed in sweat and moonflowers, and rests her forehead against his. “Mizi,” he whimpers, and she smiles, slowing the movement of her hips. He groans, eyes slipping shut, flushed so beautifully red.

“Are you listening?” she teases.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasps.

“Good. Be patient, sweet. I’m not done with you yet.” He groans at that, his hips lifting to press against her, jerkily, as if he cannot help himself. And, oh, if that knowledge is not _heady_ —with a shaking sigh, she rests herself over him, chest-to-chest, her hand pushing his hair from his forehead. The other hand she snakes down to where their hips are pressed flush together, gathering her wet on her first two fingers. She keeps rocking against him, slowly, maddeningly slowly, and lifts her hand to where he will clearly see it. When she parts her fingers, already shining with her slick, twin strings of her arousal tremble in the space between, twin gleaming bridges that connect her fingers.

Asra makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. His hands flex on her thighs, dragging her against him, making her gasp when her clit rides the hard press of him. “Mizi,” he says, ragged, nearly desperate. “Please, fuck, _please_. I want—let me—”

He reaches up, taking her wrist in hand, and sucks her fingers into his mouth. Her mind goes terribly, wonderfully blank. Asra’s eyes slip closed and his cheeks hollow, tongue swirling around her fingertips, sucking it as if it were a cock. Suddenly, her skin is too tight, her body too overheated. She pulls back, swallowing, throat drier than before, somehow. Without thinking, she grabs the hem of her shirt, moving to pull it up and over her head before she catches herself. She is left sitting in his lap, frozen, her hands crossed over her stomach, gripping the cotton of her shirt.

Asra does not hesitate. He sits up, his hands moving to cup the back of her hands. She holds his gaze as he carefully, slowly pushes her hands up, dragging the hem of her shirt up and up. She stiffens when she feels the heated summer air kiss the sweat gathered at the small of her back, and Asra releases her, cupping her face between his hands. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth. His thumbs stroke the hollows of her cheeks. “It’s fine, Mizi.”

She closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath; inhales, exhales, again. Balance in all things.

She swallows and pushes him away, just slightly, just enough so she may remove her shirt without hitting him by accident. She tosses it to the side and swallows hard once she is bare, meeting his gaze. The heat in his eyes is gone, replaced by somber understanding. Slowly, Asra scoots back, an arm wrapped around her waist to keep her in his lap. Without looking away from her, he leans to the side, picking up a moonflower that had been knocked free from her hair when she had taken off her shirt. It chimes softly, petals rustling. He tucks it into the space above her ear and smiles.

“Beautiful,” he says. “As always.”

Her throat closes. When she reaches for his hands, he lets her take them, lets her press her fingers into the spaces between his own, lets her hold his hands with a bruising grip. She rests her forehead against his and closes her eyes, taking steady breaths, trying not to let the sensation of humid summer air on her scars—never a problem when she is alone, yet hypersensitive when she is with him—unsettle her, or bring her back to places long swept to dust.

After a moment, she pulls her hands back, guiding his palms to the edges of her scars. Their breaths hitch as one, and she squeezes her eyes shut, unable to help how her body stiffens and her back flexes, arching away from the touch. She pulls her hands free and grips both his wrists, biting her tongue when she presses his fingers to the center of her back, where the worst of the gouges lie.

“Mizi,” Asra says.

“It’s all right,” she says, and it is only half a lie. Every nerve tingles in awareness; her body is rigid and still above his, braced for a great and terrible pain that she knows will never come. His fingers trace the canyons carved into her skin, the second time she has ever been touched there. His touch is careful, _tender_ , and she is shaking in his arms. He presses down on the worst scar and she cannot stop her fearful whimper, cannot stop how her body twists away from his gentle touch.

“Okay,” Asra says. “Okay, Mizi.”

She opens her eyes. His reluctance is laid bare to her, naked in the worry gathered in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. His wrists flex in her palms—a silent signal he is ready to pull away, to allow her to retreat to the comfortable space she has made for herself, but she grits her teeth, pressing his palms harder against the scars on her back. When she blinks, the corners of her eyes are wet, though she had shed no tears.

“No,” she hisses. “No, wait.” He does. She swallows hard. “I,” she starts, then stops. After a moment to collect her thoughts, she changes course. “These scars have reminded me of pain for as long as I have had them. I do not want to feel them and think of pain any longer. When I think of them, I want to think of your hands on me, and how well you have loved me all these years.”

Asra sucks in a ragged breath, and he wraps his arms around her, hands smoothing over her back, no longer hesitant in their touch. She shivers, but manages to keep herself from flinching away. When she kisses him, pressing her tongue to the seam of his mouth, he opens easily for her, as parched desert sand opens for first rain. His hands traverse her scars, tightening on her skin when she slides her hand into his hair, his earrings a light kiss against her inner wrist, and tugs on his hair so she may deepen the kiss.

He had softened, in their shared moment, so she takes advantage to sneak a hand down between them, to cup the soft heat of him. He groans into her mouth, and she smiles against his lips, carefully squeezing his shaft, enjoying the feel of him thickening and filling her palm. He’s slick with her arousal, moreso when she grinds against his length, coating both her palm and his cock. He moans, breaking the kiss to pant open-mouthed against her throat, mottled with discolored, dully pulsing bruises. His hands roam over her back, and then he drops one hand to her hip, the other to cradle the back of her head.

Without warning, he flips her, carefully draping her braid over the mattress so the sweetly-scented moonflowers are not crushed. He leans over her, cheeks flushed red and sweat gleaming in the hollows of his body, his earrings catching the light and scattering gold in honeycomb patterns over his jaw and throat. When she reaches up, brushing pearlescent hair out of his eyes, he turns his head and nuzzles into her touch.

“You’re so beautiful, Asra, sweet,” she tells him. He laughs awkwardly and glances away, cheeks reddening further. She lifts her hands, holding his face between them, and pulls him down to kiss him. He moans, shoulders buckling as he presses closer to her, chest sliding sweaty and slick against hers. She lifts her leg, drawing her toe up the meat of his calf, before wrapping her leg around his hip and pulling him closer, a wordless sign of her impatience.

He breaks away with a gasp. “Not yet,” he murmurs, desperation tinging his tone. His gaze flits between her kiss-swollen mouth and her eyes, as if he cannot decide between them. “Wanna—wanna make you come first.”

Ziah laughs. “Very well,” she says, with a grin.

Asra’s eyes darken, and his mouth curves up into a facsimile of his usual gentle smile—something confident, almost smug, and just a shade wicked. It thrills through her, leaving her dry-mouthed. He lowers his head, kissing her throat, brushing over the bruises he had bitten into her skin. She shivers, her hands going to his back, nails scraping over smooth skin between his shoulderblades and making him shiver.

He kisses his way down her body, leaving a gleaming trail as evidence of his presence, and she spreads her legs wider when he reaches her mound, nearly pushing himself off the bed in the process. With a grin, he kisses the stretch marks on her inner thighs, then hooks both of her legs over his shoulders. When he looks up at her, still smiling, she presses her lips together in a vain effort to hide her amusement. She keeps one hand by her side and lifts the other, pushing his hair out of his eyes, threading her fingers through the soft strands.

“Yes,” he says, voice rough with want. “Show me what you like. Please.”

And before she can reply, he surges forward, parting the lips of her sex with one long, savoring stroke of his tongue. She gasps, head falling back, fingers tightening in his hair. He experiments with his tongue, starting with long licks over the whole of her slit, then pressing into her to sip her wetness from the source, then tracing abstract patterns over her clit. In this, he is eager: he listens to what makes her groan, what makes her breath hitch, what makes her hips shift restlessly to press harder against his mouth. When she tugs at his hair, either to pull him back or bring him closer, he lets himself be led, until she is grinding shamelessly against his face.

“Add your fingers,” she tells him eventually. Her throat is so dry her voice comes out a rasping whisper. “One at a time, only two. Just— _oh_ —Asra, sweet, yes, just like that—”

He obeys, gently thrusting, scissoring his fingers, stretching and preparing her for him. His tongue presses flat against her clit, then curls, tracing circles around its swell. She swallows hard, feeling the heat between her legs begin to tighten, and her toes curl against his back. Asra groans against her, the sound of it vibrating through her, making her shudder. He slides his free hand under her ass, tilting her hips up toward his face, sealing his lips around her clit and sucking. At the same time, his fingers curl within her, pressing up against a spot that makes stars burst white and gold behind her eyelids.

Her back arches, and she gasps out his name, acutely aware of how her thighs shake around his head. At some point, she had fallen back to the bed, and both her hands are tangled in his hair. She swallows, chest heaving as she tries and fails to catch her breath, and lifts her head—only to see Asra’s gaze lifted to hers, gaze deep purple and hungry. His fingers press against that spot within her, his mouth relentless on her clit, and she is helpless to fight the current of his silent will.

She comes with a cry, her legs instinctively closing as she jackknifes forward, her entire body shuddering with her release. He carries her through her orgasm, gaze locked on hers, never straying from her face as she bucks against his face. Finally, she cannot take any more, and weakly pushes him away; when he follows her touch, she is too weak to hold herself up any longer. She lies back down, tugging him up with murmurs and trembling touches. Asra’s hands smooth up her thighs as he rises from between her legs, his chin shining with her slick. He licks his lips, wiping at his face with the back of his wrist.

“Good,” he murmurs to her. “That was so good, Ziah. You were so good.”

The way he looks at her, with heat and tenderness in his gaze, makes her think, inexplicably, of Julian—flushed and lax beneath her, red bottom lip snagged between his teeth, asking her if he had been _good_. But then that memory is gone, and Asra’s praise makes something deep inside her unclench, like a breath released after being held too long.

She is safe. She is warm, and loved. She is good.

Her muscles, already liquid-loose and heavy with release, relax further, and she lets herself sink into the mattress. Her nostrils burn with the scent of sex and sweat and moonflowers, and all she sees is gold and pearl and purple. All the world is Asra; nothing else matters. “Asra,” she murmurs, reaching for him with hands that do not feel real. “Now. Please.”

“Yes,” he murmurs.

When he presses into her still tender and twitching cunt, she gasps and clings to him, knees squeezing tight around his hips. He slides his hands under her back, spreading his fingers out to press against her scars, and she shudders in his arms. When he is fully sheathed within her, he takes a moment, inhaling great, rasping breaths against the juncture of her throat and shoulder.

“Ziah,” he hisses. “Ziah—”

“Yes,” she whispers, kissing the curve of his ear. “Yes, sweet.”

“You’re a little tight—are you— _hah_ —are you okay?”

She closes her eyes, clenching around him instinctively, tearing a strangled sound from his throat. “I am well,” she assures him, wrapping her still-weak legs around him and gently pulling him forward, grinding against him. There is no room for thrusts between them, only a gentle rocking that makes her shudder and clutch him tighter. “Just—wait. A moment.”

Asra waits until she whispers assurances to him; and then he draws back, and begins a slow, rocking rhythm, potent as an ocean wave.

She tilts her head back, eyes fluttering shut, sighs falling from her lips. Asra kisses every inch of her skin he can reach as he moves within her: the bruises that bloom like flowers under the skin of her throat; her jaw; her cheeks; her ears. She tries to focus on the sweet, aching slide of him within her, but Asra is whispering praise against the shell of her ear, making it hard for her to concentrate. He speaks of how good she feels, how good she’d tasted, how good she is, how perfect. The fervency of his words make her tremble.

And as she clutches at him, one hand wound in his hair and the other dragging blunt nails down his back, making him shudder, she begins to babble: “Asra, sweet, you’re good too. So good. You saved me, did you know? You brought me back. No one has done that, I’ve never met a magician who can do what you did with, with, _oh_ , with me and Faust—bringing the dead back, Asra, sweet, _oh,_ you’re wonder _fuh-ful_ —”

She drags her nails down the dip of his spine and he shudders, gasping, choking out, “Mizi, I’m—’m _close_ —”

She turns her head, and he lifts his chin, mouth already open and straining for her. She slants her mouth over his, swallowing his groan, tasting herself and the spiced treats he’d eaten at the festival. When he tries to pull away, she tightens her legs around him and pulls him flush against the cradle of her hips. She wants him close, as close as she can.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, wide-eyed.

“ _Mizi_ —” he pleads, near-begging.

“Let me feel you,” she coaxes, nipping his lower lip. She brushes sweatsoaked hair out of his lepidolite eyes. Oh, she loves him, she loves him—“Asra, sweet, let me feel you. Let go.”

He obeys.

Pulling her tight against him and squeezing his eyes shut, he _moans_ , shuddering against her. She holds him close as he comes, peppering his temple with kisses, tasting the sweat gathered there and at his hairline. After a long moment, the tension in his body drains out of him, and he relaxes against her, breathing hard.

Still catching his breath, he reaches down, fingers already glowing with a contraceptive spell she had taught him, but she catches his hand and smiles, kissing his fingertips. “Already done,” she says. She can feel the sigil glowing hot above her mound, a permanent magic that prevents her monthly blood and pregnancy alike. Asra nods, catching his breath, his whole body gleaming with sweat. The gilt and kohl on his eyes are smudged, but he is no less breathtaking.

He makes no move to pull out of her, or to withdraw, for which she is absurdly grateful, for she wants him close, still. She wraps her arms around him and kisses his temple, letting her eyes fall shut as she savors the heat of him, pressed against her. Asra sighs, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Want me to take out your earrings?” she murmurs to him. She hears a _please_ , muffled by her skin, and smiles gently. She carefully pulls out the chandelier earrings, placing them on the dresser beside their bed, and then the studs set in the lobe, above those piercings. After that goes the small hoop in his left ear orbital cartilage that is not a true piercing, but which has a narrow enough opening to stay in place and seem as convincing as the real thing. When she is done, she rubs the lobes of his ears between her thumbs and forefingers, soothing the ache of piercings gone too long unused.

Asra sighs, turning his head to kiss the heel of one of her palms, his fingers flexing under her back, pressing against her scars. She stiffens, but releases her tension with a long exhale. After a moment, she looks to the side and bends the water out of the flower vase, depositing it into the nearest earthenware cup. She reaches over and takes it in hand, then presses the rim of it to his mouth.

“Drink,” she bids him, her voice a rough whisper. Asra closes his eyes and lifts his chin, drinking every drop. She refills it and drains it as well, then sets it once more on the dresser.

“I should clean us up,” he murmurs. “Change the sheets. But I can’t really move right now.”

Ziah smiles. “Tomorrow, sweet. Tonight, we rest.”

Asra nods, sighing as he settles against her, his weight atop her a comfort rather than a restriction. He turns his head, resting his ear over her chest to listen to her heartbeat and closing his eyes.

She cards her fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and he nuzzles the skin over her heart—skin marred by eight raised bumps, each smaller than her smallest fingernail, arranged in a perfect circle. It is a scar that she has hidden by touch and by sight since she received it in her girlhood. Perhaps one day…

“How does the story end?” he asks, drawing her from her thoughts.

“What story?”

“The Hjallan one, about why they have a festival of lights.”

“Ah.”

He shifts, sliding out of her with a wet sound that makes her shiver, and rolls to the side so he is not on top of her. She wraps her arm around him and draws him close, letting him rest his ear over her heart. He listens to her heartbeat, and falls asleep to the sound of her voice. When she hears his heartbeat steady, and his breaths go deep and even, she extinguishes the gas lamps with a lazy wave of her hand.

She does not finish her story. Instead she presses herself close to him, and falls asleep to the beat of his heart, her nose full of the sweet scent of moonflowers, still woven in her hair.

—  —  —

Once, in the olden days, when the dragons still lived, Hjalle worshipped a goddess named Sunna. Sunna was the sun incarnate; her smiles brought bright days, and her sadness kept her hidden behind the clouds. In these olden days, Hjalle was still part of the continent, and cold, even in the summer, for Sunna hid herself away, often for years at a time.

One day, Sunna spied a maid: Ingrid was her name. A shepherdess, Ingrid was kind and good, and the most beautiful maiden in the world. Struck by her beauty, Sunna left her palace in the sky for the first time in a thousand years, the better to see her love. Ingrid had never known the sun, only a life of sheep and cold; she, too, was struck by Sunna’s beauty, and soon fell in love. Eventually, Sunna visited Ingrid, and the two became lovers.

At Ingrid’s request, Sunna warmed the earth. She melted the northern glaciers, leaving only the Blueheart Glacier at the bottom of the world to keep the continents from falling off the edge. The floods lifted the seas high, giving birth to basilisks, who became wyverns, who became dragons. It sunk the continent and the cities there, but left Hjalle, Ingrid’s home, intact. That is how Hjalle became the floating city we know today. With Sunna more active in the world, the earth began to grow green again, and began to heal from her neglect.

But Ingrid was mortal, and soon, too soon, she became old. Sunna, fearful of her love’s death, gave her a piece of her own soul, to share in Ingrid’s memories, and a piece of her own heart, to keep her alive. Ingrid knew this magic would not work, and drew from Sunna a vow: that she would never neglect the earth from more than a day, and that she would seek out love after her.

Sunna raged at the world, for daring to steal away her beloved, and in her fury she created the southern deserts we know today, those stretches of dry, rocky land near Nopal and the great dunes of the Scintillant Waste. Her fury lasted for a year and a day, until she saw Ingrid grow ever older and knew her lover’s words were true. When Ingrid died, Sunna took the soul- and heart-pieces that she had gifted her, and lifted them into the sky, where they joined and became the moon.

“This way,” Sunna said, “I may always be reminded of my love.”

Sunna kept her vow, grieving at night, and returning in the morning. She found other lovers, and gave all of them pieces of her very soul, but never again gave of her heart. When these lovers died, she lifted the soul-pieces she had shared with them to the sky, and they became the stars.

“This way,” she said, “this world may never go without light, even when I am gone.”

But in winter, when Sunna is farthest from us, she is sometimes tempted to forget her vow—to disappear entirely, and leave us to the eternal cold. That is why we must remind her of her promise to Ingrid, and to us. That is why, on the darkest night of winter, we light a thousand lanterns and lift them to the sky, to remind Sunna of her vow to never again forsake the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunna is an actual Norse solar goddess, but I made up this myth for Reasons™ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). hope the worldbuilding wasn't /too/ hamfisted lmfao. thanks for reading!


	8. take me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw!!
> 
> pairing: ziah/asra  
> kinks/tropes featured: pegging, anal fingering, praise kink, simulated blow jobs, intensely requited love, Smut With Feelings(tm), etc etc
> 
> post-two hearts as one, pre-handle with care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asra getting pegged was requested by alcassin and my #1 anon, drunk anon, over on my tumblr. and it only took me four months to fill it! both of you are my sun and stars, the moons of my life.

Asra, of course, is the one who finds the shop. They stand in its shadow, Ziah covering her burning face with both hands while Asra stands in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, trying to suppress his laughter as he also tries to shield her from view of whoever might be in the deserted alley.

“Mizi,” he says, “you’re a _sex witch_.”

“I am not,” she replies, her voice far too high for her liking. Her protest _squeaks_ , and she hates it. “I am a midwife, and yes, while my magic involves fertility rituals and potions, I am not a _sex witch_. I do not lay with our clients, as you well know.”

“Right, but they still have to get naked for the spells to _work_ —”

“ _Anyway!_ This is…” She glances at the shop and groans, covering her face again. “ _This is different._ ”

Asra presses his face into her shoulder, weak with half-stifled laughter. His amusement at her expense only makes her face grow hotter. “We can leave,” he finally says. “The shopkeep hasn’t seen us. No one will know you were even here, I promise.”

“But we are here for _you_ ,” she says, voice muffled by her hands. Asra laughs again, reaching up and pulling her hands down, lacing their fingers together.

“Mizi,” he says, grinning, “I can come back on my own. It’s no big deal. If you’re uncomfortable being here, then let’s leave, okay?”

Ziah swallows, gaze darting to the storefront. There is no door, only a beaded curtain, and no indication of what kind of store it actually is. It’s well hidden, tucked among the network of back alleys and dirt roads that make up the poorer parts of Vesuvia, and the small square that hosts it is abandoned, save for their presence.

She is only here for Asra. Asra who had fallen apart under the press of her fingers in his ass and, afterward, confessed that he wanted her to fuck him—not with her fingers, but with a false cock. Since then, she has not been able to think of anything else.

She will not falter from her purpose simply because she is embarrassed at the prospect of someone witnessing her purchase a sex toy. She will _not_.

She pulls her hands free and presses a fingertip to his mouth. He grins, eyes crinkling into delighted slits, and she says, “Asra, you are my world. Which is why—” she stops, at a loss for words, and closes her mouth, exhaling hard through her nose.

“Which is why…?” he prompts, his expression a blend of smug and playful and tender. He watches her with naked amusement and kisses her fingertip.

She takes a deep breath, takes Asra’s hand, and marches toward the shop. He laughs, trying to pull her back, but she remains adamant. She pushes past the beaded curtain, face still red, and ignores the shopkeep’s greeting. Asra is the one who smiles at him, even makes conversation as Ziah stares at the vast amount of merchandise, almost immediately overwhelmed.

Moments later, Asra is at her side, his hand warm at the small of her back. She relaxes at once, turning to him, and murmurs, “Pick whatever you want, sweet. We’re here for you, after all.”

“You spoil me,” Asra says, smirking. He moves away but she catches his wrist, keeping him from going too far. He turns, brows raising, and she smiles at him, fighting a flush rising steadily on her cheeks. She is acutely aware of the shopkeep’s presence behind them, and keeps her voice low accordingly.

“I intend to,” she promises, softly. She watches a flush rise on his cheeks, watches his eyes go wide before lowering, his lips curving up in the corners. He lifts her hand, kissing the tender skin of her inner wrist, and pulls away, humming softly as he peruses the store’s… products. Ziah watches him, hands behind her back, then lowers her gaze to the shelves spread out in a half-moon pattern, unable to help her curiosity.

There is a bafflingly large variety in the store’s products: costumes, several kinds of rope, blindfolds, more. From the outside, this place does not look as if it could hold so much, and yet it does. She sees handheld whips, either of rope or leather, each packaged in a pretty box, and a cold chill of unease runs down her back. A row of gags are above the wips, the product displayed above a row of wooden boxes, and Ziah turns on her heel and goes to the next arc of shelves, fighting nausea.

The next aisle is full of phalluses and phallic-shaped objects. The first thing she sees in this aisle makes her brow knot in confusion. She picks up something packaged in a painted box, revealed through a clear papery material. The toy is made of smooth metal, long and thick, with a second extension above the main length, shorter and smaller than the shaft.

What on _earth_ —

“See something you like?”

At the sound of Asra’s voice she startles, fumbling the box and almost dropping it. She puts the… _whatever-it-is_ back on the shelf, tucking her hands behind her back. Face red, she keeps her gaze straight ahead, refusing to look down to where Asra is surely grinning at her.

“Did you get it?” she asks.

“Yeah. It’s—”

“Let’s go, then,” she interrupts, turning on her heel. Asra laughs and catches her arm, gently drawing her back.

“ _Pfahaha_ , Mizi, you don’t even want to look at it?” Ziah glances down at the prettily painted box in his hands, sees a vague glimpse of red and the words _Ace of Wands!_ , and looks back up a heartbeat later, flushing. She still isn’t sure what he’d gotten when she takes the box from him.

“It’s perfect,” she says. She doesn’t know what she’s holding. “Let’s go.”

Asra snickers as she turns and marches to the counter, where the shopkeep is reading a book. She stares at the wood grains between her hands as the shopkeep, utterly bored, tells her what she owes. She hands over a handful of pebbles illusioned as Vesuvian goldens and keeps her gaze on the countertop. He takes the money, bags Asra’s new toy, then slides it over to her. With scarlet cheeks, she takes it and leaves the store without ever once making eye contact with the shopkeep.

Asra bursts into laughter the moment they are far enough from the shop, drawing her aside. She stares resolutely at the wall as he takes the shop’s bag from her and puts it in his own messenger bag. “That wasn’t so bad,” he says, once his bag is fastened and resting at his hip.

“No,” she admits, quietly, unwilling to admit the extent of her embarrassment aloud. It is a ridiculous thing to get worked up about; the stranger who runs the store has likely seen worse purchases than whatever Asra had wanted, and he would never see her again. She should not be overreacting like this. She glances down the empty alley and exhales, willing her blush away.

Asra makes a low sound and reaches out, smoothing his hands down her arms, resting them at her elbows. “Hey. I’m sorry I laughed,” he says. “Are you all right? I found a good sharbat place for you, but we can go back to the shop if you want.”

She exhales again. “Does this sharbat place have mango?”

“You know it.” Asra grins, stepping back and taking her right hand in his, threading their fingers together. He gently tugs her from the shadows of the alley, and they leave the narrow back alley together, stepping into the bustle of the main streets. Despite the stormclouds building over the sea, the sun is still out, bright enough that Ziah squints and Asra shades his face with his free hand.

“It’s a new café,” he tells her, weaving through the crowd while never letting go of her hand, “right up the hill past the floating markets. Has a great view of the sea. I think you’ll like it.”

She cannot recall any sharbat café as he describes; she had been limited to street vendors before the Lazaret, and had lived with months of bitter disappointment after her favorite one moved away to avoid the plague. “When did it open?”

Asra hesitates, giving her an unreadable look. His heartbeat picks up, audible over the call of the ocean and the heartbeats of the other citizens on the streets. It is rapid but heavy, a betrayal of stress. She moves closer to him automatically, squeezing his hand and glancing down at him.

“While you were gone,” he says, finally, watching her face.

 _Gone_ has become a euphemism for her death; the uncertain month between giving her his heart and her return to Vesuvia, when she was somewhere he could not follow. Ziah holds his gaze and lifts their intertwined hands, kissing the back of his hand. He swallows hard then exhales, offering a small smile.

“You’re back,” he says, quietly. “That’s all I need.”

It takes them twenty minutes to find the sharbat café, as it is tucked away in one of the many hidden gardens scattered throughout the city. The squares in the poorer areas had been converted to community vegetable gardens, while the rich had turned theirs into places of leisure, meant for strolls through statue- and fountain-studded greenery.

Asra gets them a table on the terrace, which provides a view of the city and the sea below, and the palace above them. The café’s back wall is painted with a mural of a brilliant ocean sunset, though the edges of the wall are framed in ivy. Each of the outdoor tables have an unlit beeswax candle in the center.

It is, she thinks, indicative of the area’s wealth.

Asra sits down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair and watching her. After a moment, he rests his elbow on the armrest, and rests his chin in his hand as he gazes at her, eyes half-lidded.

She remembers the first time she had caught him looking at her like that—it had been the first time he had called her beautiful, perhaps… five years ago? She is not quite sure. A flush rises to her cheeks at the memory nonetheless. But before she can inquire about it, the waiter comes to take their orders. She orders a mango sharbat, and Asra orders chocolate chip hotcakes, of all things. He doesn’t look away from her once.

“How are things at the palace?” she asks, after the waiter is gone.

“Hm? Oh. Fine. At this point we’re all just waiting for Lucio to die, honestly.” Ziah chokes on her sudden burst of laughter, and Asra shrugs a shoulder, noncommittal, dismissive. “Doesn’t mean he’ll go without a fight. No, every day he has to have a tantrum or a breakdown. Once he asked Nadi—the Countess, you two should meet soon—if she would forget him, of all things. I can’t pity him, though. He deserves all of it. Maybe worse.”

“The plague is not a pleasant way to die,” she says, softly. Asra swallows and looks away. “I do not fault him his fear of death.”

Her left hand aches. On the horizon, over the seascape, grey summer stormclouds are building like a wall of ash. It makes her think of the Lazaret, and the funeral pits, and her throat closes up.

“Maybe you’re more forgiving than I am,” Asra says. “I can’t forgive him for what he did to Muriel, or to you.”

“As I will never forgive him for threatening you,” Ziah says, reaching out and clasping his hand with her right. Asra blinks twice, thrice, then lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles. Ziah opens her palm, cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking smooth skin. His eyes flutter shut and he turns into her touch, sighing.

“How wondrous you are, Asra,” she murmurs. “How lucky I am to love you.”

His eyes snap open and meet hers, a faint blush rising on his cheeks before he looks away, laughing awkwardly even as he tries to fight a growing smile. After a moment he kisses her palm and meets her gaze, his cheeks still red as his eyes move, gaze focusing on something in the corners of his eyes. “ _I’m_ the lucky one. Some days I wonder why you didn’t just kick me out when I showed up in your shop all those years ago.” He winces at some half-forgotten memory.

She laughs, ducking her head. “I tried,” she says, pressing her lips together tightly so she will not show her teeth. Her cheeks ache nonetheless, in the best way. “You were persistent. I am glad you stayed. It changed… everything.”

“For the better, I hope,” he says, softly. “Despite everything.”

She touches his cheek. “For the better,” she agrees, then pulls away, sitting back in her chair. “Now. I have been remiss, Asra. Tell me of the good things that happened to you while I was gone. Tell me of your moments of spring whilst in winter’s hold.”

Asra chuckles, resting his chin in his palm as he stares at her. “The things you say sometimes,” he murmurs, lepidolite eyes bright, brimming with affection. “You should come to the palace, be a poet.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I am not eloquent enough for poetry.”

“You literally just said one of the most poetic things I’ve ever heard,” he argues. She shakes her head, and Asra lets it go by raising his other hand, a silent surrender. “All right, all right. Moments of spring, huh?” He drums a fingertip against the table, thinking, and then his face splits in a wide, dimpling smile. “Well, there’s Nadi. Nadi’s my spring.” He laughs, shakes his head, slightly. “She’s the best, Ziah. The absolute best. You’ll love her when you meet her, I just know it. Hopefully that’ll be soon.”

Ziah smiles, leaning forward. “Tell me of her.”

He does, and gladly. They talk of small nothings and the best moments of summer, the festival of lights and elephant thieves, Prakra and the sea. They get their sharbat and their hotcakes, and though the storm approaches, bringing the scent of rain with it, they stay outside. Asra shares one of his fluffed and drenched-in-chocolate-sauce hotcakes with her, and afterward takes her left palm in his hands, massaging her knuckles.

She sighs, the ache in her hand lessening under his touch, and he smiles up at her. “Better?” he asks. She nods, and, still massaging her hand, he dives once more into his telling of all the secret passages he had discovered in the palace. He has taken to learning the magic of these “portals,” as he calls some of them—and he is careful to differentiate these portals from hidden or secret passageways already built into the palace.

They talk until the first raindrop hits his nose. He blinks, nose scrunching as he tilts his head back to look at the sky, fully gray now. That is when he gently kisses the tips of her left fingers and stands, offering his hand to her. “Ready to go home?” he asks. She takes his hand and rises.

They pay inside the café, and return to the shop hand-in-hand. The rain holds, thankfully, up until they reach the doorstep of the shop. Asra tugs her inside just as thunder rumbles, faintly, and then the rain begins in earnest, pouring in a rush, splashing upon the streets, glittering like a thousand tiny diamonds. It breaks the heat in a wave of welcome, cool air upon her face. Asra laughs and presses up behind her, reaching around her to close the door as he peppers kisses over her naked neck.

Ziah turns and pulls him toward her, until her back is against the door and her fingers are in his hair and they are kissing, kissing, kissing, his nose smushed against her cheek and the smell of rain and green things clinging to their clothes. He tastes of chocolate, of something warm and full of life. She listens to how his heart’s beat quickens when she kisses his lower lip and, in tentative overture, pulls it between her teeth.

He answers it with a soft sound pulled from the recesses of his throat, one so raw in its want of her that her body answers it with an instinctive throb of heat in her core, and dampness between her legs. She breaks the kiss to breathe, but kisses his throat, brushing over a spot that makes him shiver and clutch at her shoulders.

“Mizi,” he says. His voice is rougher than usual, raw with want; the gravel in his usually smooth tone makes her mouth go dry. “Do—do you want to go upstairs?”

He says it like this: do you _want_ to go upstairs?

She finds it fascinating.

Instead of answering, she takes her time with him: she kisses his throat, slow and leisurely, ignoring how his hands smooth down her arms, how he guides her free hand to rest between his legs, how he groans and presses down against her touch, breath hitching. When she pulls away, it is just as languid and drawn-out as before, and leaves him panting. Her own heart is racing, but she keeps herself in check.

“Do _you_ want to go upstairs?” she echoes, watching his face. “Or—perhaps you would rather have me here, against the door?” She pauses. “Perhaps you would rather _I_ have you here?”

She does not think her muscles are strong enough for that, anymore, but she would try for him. She watches the way his irises darken to a deeper shade of purple, his mouth curves into a smirk. He gently pulls her hand from his hair and leans forward to scrape his teeth against the vulnerable skin of her throat, smiling when she shivers. He bites down, sucking a bruise into her skin, and her head thumps against the door.

“Both,” he says, once he is satisfied. Ziah presses her legs together, stifling her sigh. “Though I’m game for anywhere, with you.”

“The attic, then,” she says. “I intend to use that toy of yours and I would rather I do so there.”

He laughs, squeezing her right hand and kissing her left, stepping away with a spring in his step. “As my lady commands,” he says, smiling as he turns and heads toward the staircase. Thunder rumbles outside, and she listens, briefly, to the sound of rain on the roof as she imagines Asra spread-out on blankets and pillows underneath her, or Asra kissing her as he lifts her onto the backroom table—

 _Enough_ , she thinks, blinking back to herself. She shakes her head, acutely aware of how hot her face is, and goes upstairs to the kitchenette. She finds a stopped wine bottle full of olive oil, set aside for this very purpose so as not to confuse it with the oil they use for cooking, and goes upstairs.

She smells rose and sandalwood incense as she climbs the stairs and enters the attic. Asra is rifling through his messenger bag, and he only looks at her once he pulls a familiar box from its depths. He grins at her and tosses the box on the bed, watching her with heated, hooded eyes as she crosses the room to put the oil on their dresser. Outside, the rain continues, running down the window not in droplets but in sheets of water. The stormlight casts a blue sheen over him.

Ziah moves to light the gas lamp, but he stops her, pulling her close for another kiss. This time when he pulls away, she finds herself leaning towards him for another before she catches herself and clears her throat, flushing. Asra grins at her, cheeks dimpling, and reaches down to pull his shirt over his head. They spend the next few minutes undressing—Asra takes off his necklace and choker, then rifles through their jewelry to find a rose quartz pendant that rests over his sternum.

Once he is naked, he sits on the bed, almost lounging as he watches her step out of her fallen clothes. She licks her lips as she moves to grip the hem of her shirt—which bears a deep vee neckline, exposing her collarbones and the curves of her breasts. It would be simple, to move the sleeves down and let the shirt slip down her body, leaving her bare to nothing but the air and his gaze.

But she cannot. Her chest is tight, and she can feel every place her shirt touches her scars.

She holds his gaze, suddenly aware of the tremble in her hands. Concern breaks the desire in his eyes and he sits up, reaching for her with an open palm. “Mizi?” he asks. “You okay?”

“One moment,” she chokes out, and goes behind the divider that separates the bath and washroom from the rest of their room. On one of the hooks is a light blue robe. Ziah takes off her shirt, shivering at the cool air that brushes against her naked body, her sensitive scars. Her breath comes in ragged inhales as she quickly shrugs on the robe and frees her hair. The robe is left open, but her back is covered.

Asra’s warm arms wrap around her and he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Can I touch your back tonight?” he asks. She closes her eyes, debating, her self-consciousness growing with every moment that passes in silence. Finally, she shakes her head.

“Okay,” Asra says, kissing her neck.

“I am sorry, sweet,” she says. Asra hums against her shoulder.

“Don’t be. Please.” She feels his lips curve into a smile against her skin, and he reaches around her to grab a folded towel from an end table they’d appropriated to use as a shelf. “Ready to go back?”

She nods, and goes with him back to the bed. He sets out the towel, then plops down on the bed with a huff of laughter, pulling the box into his lap and opening it. She sits beside him and stares, bemused, as he pulls out a false cock made entirely of red jasper, accompanied by a confusing mass of leather and cloth with several holes in them. She looks up to see Asra grinning at her, an expectant look on his face.

“What is this?” she says. He laughs, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, a move that takes her by surprise and leaves her cheeks flushed.

“This,” he says, holding up the phallus, “I think is obvious.” She rolls her eyes, cheeks burning, and he grins at her again. “But _this_ is a harness. See the hole here, at the base, and the latch here? They go together. You wear it and fuck me senseless, basically.”

Despite the cool air, the room feels far too hot, and it only grows hotter at his words. She swallows thickly, remembering how he had fallen apart under her fingers, how he had whined and panted and alternated rutting between her fingers and the sheets. If this would be anything like that—if she is able to get him to bite the pillow again, and if his body shakes with pleasure as before—then she is… _very_ interested.

But there is one small problem.

“I have not done this before,” she admits, quietly.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Asra assures her. “But first…”

He moves phallus and harness both aside and tosses the box off the bed. With a coy smirk, he lays down, stretching out over the towel, eyes hooded as he gazes at her. She lets herself return his smirk as she moves, shifting into a lounging position as she moves over him, straddling his thighs and taking his hands in hers. His smirk deepens into a hungry smile, dimples flashing, and she leans over him, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of his head.

Thunder rumbles outside, and she drapes herself over him, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip. The rose quartz pendant digs into her sternum, rolling to press over her heart. She releases his right hand and cups his face, kissing him soundly, licking and nibbling his bottom lip as the rain falls outside. Asra moans into the kiss, mouth parting for her tongue, his freed hand gripping the meat of her thigh. His hips shift underneath her, lifting in a languid roll to press against the damp heat between her legs. He’s half-hard, and as she grinds against him, drinking down his soft sounds, she feels his hands flex—in her palm, around her thigh—as he hardens further.

When she breaks the kiss, his breath is hot against her lips, his mouth reddened and shining. “You are ready, then?” she asks, releasing his other hand to brush his forelock out of his eyes. He nods, swallowing, his hands smoothing down the backs of her thighs and back up again, feeling the soft fine hairs there. She kisses his nose and sits up, rocking against him purposefully, biting back a smile when he groans underneath her. She reaches to the side, taking the bottle of oil in hand, and moves down, hiking his legs around her hips, ankles crossing at the small of her back, gliding over and tangling with her robe.

She checks her nails for ragged or sharp edges and, finding none, pours a small amount of olive oil into the palm of her hand. She leans over to put the bottle on the floor, then sits back up and begins to slick her fingers. She looks at Asra, who stretches his arms above his head, lifting his hips to press against the gentle outward curve of her stomach and the wide tops of her thighs. His aura bleeds gold and red, joyful colors, colors of anticipation and desire. She smiles at him.

“Patience,” she says, attempting to sound scolding and failing utterly.

Asra hums, then smiles at her, silly and lovestricken. Her heart warms at the sight. “Patience is overrated,” he says, voice low, stoking the heat within her. “Mm, I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

She laughs, feeling her face heat at the way he says _fuck_ , so crass and casual. She tests the glide of the oil on her fingers one last time, checking for dry or rough spots. “I see. In that case, spread your legs for me, sweet.”

He does, canting his hips up, making three lines crease across his upper abdomen. She lowers her hand to his entrance, circling it with two fingers, pressing carefully against it and then withdrawing to massage the outer area once again. Asra bites his lip, planting his feet on either side of her hips, and she watches his face as she presses her longest finger against him.

They have done this only once before, so it takes some more coaxing and oil before his body opens to her. But once her finger slides into him up to the knuckle, he moans, arching his back. She twists her wrist, curling her fingertip as she seeks out his prostate, and when she grazes it he shudders, biting his lip.

“There,” he says, head tilting back into the pillows. A lovely flush is spread cherry-red over his cheeks, sweat beginning to collect in the hollows of his body. “Fuck, right there, Mizi, please—”

She dips down, kissing his stomach as he rocks into her palm, shuddering with bolts of pleasure every time she finds his prostate. When he tells her he’s ready, she presses another finger into him, scissoring them, watching his face for signs of discomfort and finding only bliss. Even then, she adds more oil, enough that her fingers begin to make wet squelching sounds as she works him open.

She takes his cock in her other hand, rolling down the foreskin and revealing the flushed head, glistening with his own fluids. She smears them into the underside of his cock with her thumb, enjoying how his swollen mouth drops open, how his eyes squeeze shut and he stutters out a moan, legs flexing around her sides as his hips jerk toward her.

“Good?” she asks. A moan is her response, followed by frantic nodding. She withdraws, slowly, removing her hands from his cock and ass. A plaintive whine accompanies it, and his eyes snap open, brow creasing as he looks at her, his confusion naked on his face. She smiles, runs her hand down his trembling thigh and squeezing above his knee. “Turn over, sweet.”

He obeys at once, fingers clenching in the pillow propped under him, canting his hips toward her and resting his cheek on the pillow, smirking at her. She slicks her hand again, squeezing the plump cheeks of his ass, smearing oil over his skin, making him glisten in the dim light. He laughs, squirming, but she steadies him when she rests her left hand on his hip, pressing her right to his entrance once again.

This time, he takes her easily—first one finger, then two. She leans forward, scratching down his back, enjoying the sound of his gasp, the sight of his back arching and muscles flexing. When she finds his prostate again, at a better angle to stimulate it, Asra chokes back a moan and buries his face in his pillow, his toes curling against her calves as a full-body shudder runs through him. Ziah hums, scratching down his sides again with her left hand as she massages his prostate, trying to pull more of those wonderful sounds from the well of his throat. Eventually she lifts his hips higher, allowing for both a deeper angle and easier access to his cock, red and dripping between his legs.

The moment she takes his cock in hand, smiling when it pulses in her palm, Asra groans and stutters out a single word: _“S-stop.”_

Cold horror washes over her like ice water. She releases him at once, gently pulling her fingers from him and wiping them on the sheets. “Asra,” she says, swallowing hard. “Asra, are you well, sweet?”

Asra sags, breathing hard, tremors still running through his body. Outside, lightning flashes, blinding her for an instant. Fear still has her heart in its icy grip, and she waits with held breath for him to speak. If she had—if she had hurt him, no matter how unintentionally—

“Close,” he finally rasps. “Too close. Too good.”

He rolls over with a sigh, faintly smiling, which fades when he sees her face. He sits up at once, reaching for her, cupping her face between his warm hands. Thunder rumbles when he smiles at her. “I’m okay,” he assures her. “I just don’t want it to end, just yet. I like the denial, sometimes. Sorry, I should’ve told you before.”

She cannot bring herself to reply. Asra carefully leans forward, holding her gaze until their lips brush. Then her breath shudders out of her and she closes her eyes, slowly kissing him back, letting her racing heartbeat calm. When he pulls away, she whispers, “I did not hurt you, then?”

“Nope.” His smile makes his eyes crinkle in the corners, dimples flashing like shadows against his face. “I’m having a great time. Are you?”

Her exhale still shakes, but she nods, unable to bring herself to speak. Asra kisses her again, still soft and slow, just the pressure of lips against lips, the feeling of his fingertips against her face. She lets it pull her back from the terrible panic that had weighed her chest and hollowed her stomach.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to keep going?”

She nods, glancing back toward the harness, and Asra laughs. “Right,” he says, moving forward and taking both phallus and harness in hand. “Let me help you into this.”

She ends up standing as he sits on the bed, and she must balance herself by placing her hands on his shoulders as he helps her into the harness. He takes advantage of his position to pepper kisses over the curve of her stomach and the stretch marks on her hips. He helps her into the harness, then locks the phallus into place. He untucks the edges of her robe to let it flutter down atop the cloth and leather, looks at her through his lashes, then leans forward, taking it into his mouth.

She cannot stop a strangled noise from escaping her throat, cannot stop the arousal that pulses in her core, spreading to her stomach and her knees, warm as a burning coal. Behind them, lightning flashes, dyeing his plum eyes indigo, and he holds her gaze as he bobs his head, moaning around the false cock in his mouth as if she could feel it. She brushes his hair out of his eyes, twirling it between her fingers, enjoying its softness as he drags his tongue over the ridiculously accurate head of the phallus.

“All right,” she says, voice gone husky. He pulls back, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, and he grins at her as he sits up, placing a quick peck on her lips. She blinks, then smiles, slowly. “How would you like to do this?”

“Hmm. Me on top, I think. That’d be easiest.”

She nods, a bit shakily, and moves to lay on the bed, pushing the towel to the side. Asra kisses her again and sits back, leaning over and pouring more oil into his hand. He slicks the false cock to his satisfaction, then positions himself above her, taking the phallus in hand and slowly taking it into himself.

It had been a marvel, before, watching him shudder and moan underneath her, but this—watching him sink down onto the false cock between her legs, watching his eyelids flutter and his teeth catch on his bottom lip as he moans, smiling—this is a thousand times better.

Once he is seated, he pants out a curse, hunching over. She traces the folds of his stomach where his body has curled in on itself, relishing the feeling of his muscles twitching under her touch. She watches his face, brushes his hair out of his eyes, waits for his gaze to slide up her body to her face before she speaks in ardent whisper: “Look at you, sweet. You are so beautiful.”

His eyes widen, cheeks staining a deeper red. She watches him swallow, and he leans forward to brace himself above her, the rose quartz falling to rest over her heart. “Again,” he says, quietly. “Please, again.”

“Beautiful,” she tells him, holding his dark gaze. “Beautiful. Beautiful.”

Asra shivers, biting his lip again. She puts her hands on his thigh and hip as he begins to lift himself up and down, up and down, working himself on her false cock. Soon she begins to join him, picking up the rhythm he has set for them. His eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, a stuttering moan filling the scant space between them as his body shudders. Soon he is trembling above her, rocking desperately, setting a rhythm that makes her hip muscles burn as she rises to meet him.

She will be sore tomorrow. It will be worth it.

“Too close,” he gasps out, stopping them both. She watches him shudder and pitch forward, hiding his face against her neck, the heat of his breath tickling the sweat on her skin. She squeezes his thighs, scraping her nails down sensitive skin, and he shudders, reaching out to grab one of her wrists. They lay in perfect stillness, broken only by his heavy pants and the rain outside, until he heaves a sigh and pushes himself up, rocking back onto the phallus once more, resting his fists on his knees.

“Okay. I’m ready,” he says, and they start again.

He stops himself just before completion twice more, stuttering out _c-c-close_ each time. The third time, he finally rolls them over, nearly colliding with the wall. Ziah is left on her knees with his legs clenched tight around her hips. “Like this,” Asra says, flushed so beautifully red, his cock dripping. “I’m ready, Mizi, please, please—”

Ziah smiles, adjusting her hold on him and starting up the rhythm he’d used while riding her. It is not as easy as she had thought: they must first do some coordinating before she finds a rhythm and tempo that makes him keen, makes his abdomen clench and his back arch. “You make this look easy,” she says, and he either does not or cannot reply, too lost in pleasure. She grunts, muscles straining as she thrusts into him harder, harder—

On the next thrust, she hears a sharp snap and feels something give. Suddenly, she is much lighter than before, and her harness is empty.

Asra whines at her stillness, unaware of the sudden problem, his hitched breaths sounding perilously like sobs. “What,” he pants, adjusting on the bed, lifting his hips desperately toward her, “why—why’d you stop?”

She covers her mouth with a hand, hiding her grin, and says, “It fell off.”

“It—what? It fell off?” He gets his arms under him, propping himself on his elbows as he glances down, where the phallus is halfway in his ass and no longer attached to her harness. His eyes go comically wide. Ziah cannot hide her laughter, then: she doubles over, pressing her forehead into the mattress as she laughs so hard tears bead the corners of her eyes. Asra laughs with her, his body shaking under her hands, and she feels his fingers run through her hair.

It takes several minutes for her to collect herself again. Once she does, she straightens, grinning down at him. Asra sits up, belly folding in three separate lines as he curls toward her, helping her reattach the phallus to her harness. Once it is secure again, he hooks his thumbs under the bands and tugs her forward, lifting his chin and kissing the underside her jaw.

“Okay,” he purrs. She shivers, mouth drying. He kisses her chin, murmurs, “Ready?”

She thrusts in answer, pulling a half-choked moan from him. He falls back to the bed, meeting her thrust for thrust as she whispers praises to him—what a marvel he is, how wonderful he is, how beautiful. Every praise pulls him closer and closer, until she takes his cock in hand and calls him _sweet._

Then, he shudders and comes with a long, satisfied moan, his cock pulsing in her palm as his seed spills over his stomach, his chest. She fucks him through it, enjoying the sounds he makes, ignoring the burn in her hips and other muscles there that she hadn’t known existed. She continues touching until he makes a weak sound of protest and tries to push her hand away, shaking his head.

Then, and only then, does she leave him, lax and pliant and flushed on the bed. She uses the towel to clean him, then wraps the toy in it and sets it aside to be cleaned later. Somehow, she manages to maneuver herself out of the harness. Once she is done, she climbs back into bed. Asra hums, eyes closed as he reaches for her and pulls her close.

“You didn’t,” he starts, but does not finish. He is exhausted, she can read it in the lines of his face. She shushes him, kissing first the moles under his chin and then the beauty mark under the corner of his mouth, then his cheeks and the sensitive skin under his eyes. When she is done, he is smiling; she kisses his dimples as well. He makes a sound, rolling to the side with his eyes still closed, his hand trailing down her naked body to cup her sex. “Wanna make you come. Twice. Mm _mm_ aybe three times.”

He mutters this half against her cheek, and half into the pillow.

She laughs—she has only ever been capable of one orgasm during sex, and she doubts that will ever change. Nevertheless, he is always the first to sleep after sex; he will not have the energy for such efforts. So she kisses the delicate skin of his eyelids and gently pulls his hand from between her legs.

“Make it up to me tomorrow,” she says, not meaning it. She is certain he will not remember in the morning. Yet he still nods, a barely noticeable inclination of his head.

“Mizi,” he says, cracking his eyes open, revealing slits of lepidolite purple. “I love you.”

Her throat closes, a lump welling in the middle of it. For a long time, there is nothing but his deep breathing—not deeply enough to be asleep, but nearly there—and the storming outside. For a long time, there is only the sound of slowing heartbeats and thunder and the eternal call of the ocean.

“I love you, Asra,” she finally returns, quietly. “My world. My sun.”

Asra falls asleep smiling, his arm slung over her, his face pressed into her neck.


	9. give a little love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some birthday smut for my #1 birthday magician, asra. asra n ziah stopped taking themselves seriously about 3/4ths through, so what can ya do
> 
> pairings: asra x ziah; mention of asra x nadia, ziah x julian, asra x julian  
> kinks/tropes included: overstimulation, forced orgasm (ish), sub(by) asra, praise kink, touch starved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will build sub/subby asra with my own two bare hands and none of yall can stop me. also, at some point 30 billion years from now, asra/ziah/nadia will be ot3 endgame, #sorrynotsorry.

She wakes to Asra’s body burning just shy of too-hot behind her. He’s pressed against her back, chin on her shoulder, ear pressed to the pulsepoint in her throat, hair tickling her jaw. His fingertips rest on the center of her abdomen, bare palm against naked skin. It burns like a brand, and once again she is reminded how desperate she is for touch, for closeness, for intimacy. Somehow, over the course of the past year, her desire had become a need, a lake unable to be filled.

That need is a starved creature inside her; once treated with kindness it had become ravenous, and every touch feeds it, encourages it. She will get up, and go about her day, and remember the warmth of Asra’s hand on her stomach throughout the day as if it were fresh and new and not an hours-old memory. She will get up and think about how the heat of his chest had bled through her robe and touched her scars. She will get up and think of Asra, flushed and panting, moaning her name.

She does not want to get up.

So she gnaws on her thumbnail until it breaks between her teeth, then gently lowers her hand to rest atop of Asra’s. He shifts and her breath catches, but except for a twitch of his fingers—a twitch she feels acutely, despite the minor brush of his skin over hers—he does not stir.

It is dark. It is either very late, or very early; their nap had robbed the rest of the day from them. Were she facing the window, she would know how much time they had lost, but she is not, and she is reluctant to disrupt Asra simply to confirm her knowledge.

She instead stays as still as possible, enjoying the warmth of him pressed against her, the blazing heat of his hand draped over her navel.

At some point, Asra’s steady breathing hitches, and in his sleep his heartbeat picks up. He sighs against her throat, warm breath tickling her skin, sending a rush of sensation from her scalp to her toes. Her hand tightens around him. Asra makes another sound, one that makes her mouth go dry, and his arm tightens around her.

She should wake him up. Already she can feel him hardening against her, can feel the minute shifts of his hips as his body seeks out more contact. But then Asra sighs her name in his sleep, murmurs _please_ , and she bites her lip, squeezing her thighs together.

She remembers his promise, before they’d fallen asleep— _wanna make you come. twice. maybe three times._ She doubts that he will manage to fulfill it, but she does not doubt that he will try.

Heat simmers in the pit of her belly, creeping lower, and she swallows, hard, tracing patterns on the back of his hand, very lightly, very aware of every place his body touches hers. Asra makes a slight, desperate sound and presses against her, cock hard against her heated skin. She presses back, biting her lip and letting her eyes fall shut.

With a reedy gasp a few moments later, he wakes up, and she does not dare to breathe. Her heart hammers in the center of her chest, in her fingertips, between her legs. Her whole body is alive, and the night is either very old or very young, and her need for touch, closeness, _intimacy_ is no longer sated. She opens her eyes and looks out into the room.

“Good dream?” she asks, breaking the stillness. Asra laughs and stays still, though his arm remains draped over her, forearm propped on her hip.

“Yeah,” he says, roughly. “I—” he breaks off with a curse, resting his forehead on her shoulder. Without a word, she presses back against him, grinding slowly against his hardness, and he gasps, shifts, gasps again. His breath comes ragged and stuttering; once again, she thinks perhaps it is the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard.

“Tell me,” she bids him, and hears his swallow. She reaches behind her, squeezes his hip, scratches her nails lightly over his skin as she maneuvers her hand to rest against the small of his back. The flesh under her palm is searing, slightly damp with sweat. Were she to cut his skin, she suspects she would see flames instead of blood. He groans against her throat, hips moving in miniscule shifts, careful brushes of contact. She feels every one of them.

“I was—” He stops with a hiss, rocking against her a bit more desperately, now. His hand drags up her stomach to palm her breast, roll her pebbled nipple between his fingers. Ziah whimpers, reaching down between her legs with her other hand. She takes him in hand, swallows at his moan, and moves until his cock rests between her legs, the hard, hot line of it flush against her slit. She’s still wet from last night, and sweat had gathered on her thighs. Asra’s sigh shakes as he begins to move, in and out, in and out.

The air feels too-thick, too hard to breathe properly. All she can focus on is where their bodies meet—chest to back, thigh to thigh, arms and mouths and fingertips. She is dizzy with want, grateful that she is lying down; she suspects her legs would fail her, right now, if Asra were to try to get her to stand up.

Asra presses his face into her hair, pinching her nipple until she arches into his hand. Then he releases her breast, moving his hand to the other one, giving her other nipple similar treatment until she writhes against him. He whispers another curse, rocking between her clenched thighs, and his second hand manages to move downward, pressing down on her own.

“You were?” she prompts, breathless. His warmth, his touch, surrounds her, and she cannot think. “Tell me your dream, sweet.”

It is only a few moments before he collects himself enough to answer, but the absence of his voice feels an eternity.

“I was with you and—” he cuts himself off, moaning, his hips jerking against her in a way she can only think to describe as _helpless_.

“Nadia?” she guesses, voice already rasping. His desperate gasp and a single buck of his hips are her answer. His aura reaches out to her, trembling and potent in his desire. When she presses her magic against his, a warm, caressing touch that make them both shudder, his breath comes in what almost sounds like a whine.

 _“Yes,”_ he whispers, breath hot against her cheek, and he kisses her ear. The confession thrills through her. He kisses her ear, slows his thrusts to a smooth, careful rhythm, hands tightening to a bruising grip on her body. The oath he rasps into her hair is hoarse, wrecked.

She suspects she should feel jealous, or insecure, or hurt, somehow, that he had sought out another during her time at the Lazaret. But all she can feel is longing, a desire to know and love this Nadia as Asra so clearly does. (Besides: she had had Julian, and Asra had had Nadia. He had not been alone; she had not abandoned him; he had been loved, he was loved, he is loved. How wonderful, how lovely that knowledge is.)

She cannot stop her own answering moan, cannot keep herself from moving her head, offering her throat so he may mark her as he pleases. He takes her up on her silent gift, ducking his head, worrying at her throat with his teeth. She gasps when he bites down, eyes closing, already aware that he fully intends to make this bruise impossible to hide except with magic.

“You were both—hngh—” 

“Tell me,” she manages, and despite the rasp in her voice her request is a demand, firmer than last time. She drags her nails down his thigh, gripping and kneading his flesh before moving to rest her hand at the small of his back, pressing down on his body in time with his own thrusts, directing him. With the hand between her legs, she cups his cock, using her thumb to rub his own fluids into his soft, heated skin, teasing the sensitive slit. Asra bucks, moans, and his exhale is hard and shuddering, as if his lungs had emptied with it.

His hand that covers hers grips her wrist, fingers curling to press against her hammering pulse; its twin has moved back to her stomach, feeling the flex in her muscles as she rubs herself against him. 

“We were both?” she prompts, shuddering when his hand maneuvers beneath hers, spreading the lips of her sex, his longest finger easily finding her clit and starting to rub it in slow circles. Asra’s face is buried in her shoulder, and she lifts her free hand—the one that had been pressed against his lower back, pushing in time with his thrusts—to tangle in his hair, gently pulling his head back. His breath fans hot across her shoulder.

“ _Asra_.  _Tell me,_ ” she orders, squeezing him gently, never hard enough to hurt. Her palm is slick with his arousal.

“Fucking me,” he hisses out, and her mind goes utterly blank. She pictures Asra caught between her and his Nadia, flushed red and panting as he is right now, and the _want_ that sweeps through her makes her breath catch. Behind her, his breath hitches, falls, hitches again. His cock throbs in her hand, once, and his hand stills on her clit, allowing her time to breathe, to think. Her pulse thrums between her legs; her palm is wet with their mixed arousal.

“Mizi,” he breathes, and he is truly desperate now, nearing his end, she can hear it in his pulse and his breath and his voice. His hands spasm on her body. “’M close, Mizi, _oh_ —”

She recovers from that brief mental image and swallows. “No,” she says, voice still hard, commanding, unfamiliar to her but not unwelcome. “No, not that name. Not mine. Hers, sweet.”

“Nadi,” Asra sobs at once, “Nadi, _please,_ I want—”

“Yes,” Ziah says, and he comes with his teeth in her shoulder, biting hard enough to bruise. His spend fills her palm, splashes out onto her thighs and mound, but by some miracle do not get on the sheets. Asra stays curled against her back, twitching and trembling and undone, breathing hard through his nose, threads of his hair tickling her skin. She closes her eyes, enjoying his closeness, taking note of how hotly her cheeks burn, how wet she is.

She would, she thinks, very much like to meet this Nadia. Soon.

Once he is soft between her thighs, Asra kisses her shoulder and pulls away, drawing his aura within himself as he does so. She shifts, turning onto her back, uncaring of how her robe splays open, exposing her body to the cool night air. Her hand is sticky. Her nose wrinkles at the sensation. The bed groans as Asra sits up and stands, turning on one of the gas lamps, spilling golden light over the room.

He brings back the same towel that is still wrapped around his Ace of Wands—the name of the toy makes her snort, and he grins at her, a knowing light in his eyes—and uses it to clean her hand, her thighs, using water from a nearby vase. He looks at her fleetingly from underneath his eyelashes, and the upper half of his face, including his ears, are still red.

Ziah catches his hand, brushes the backs of her clean fingers against his cheek until he looks at her. “Are you embarrassed?” she asks. “You needn’t be. Come here, sweet.”

He does, moving slowly, resting his cheek on the pillow beside her. She shifts onto her side, facing him fully. He smiles at her, and though it is close-lipped, his cheeks still dimple. Warmth floods her heart, and her stomach flips at the sight. She leans forward, kissing first his left eye, then his right. She smiles when he laughs, more a tired huff of breath than true amusement, and ducks down to kiss the etches in his skin where his dimples rest, then the corners of his mouth.

Asra catches her chin and lifts his head, kissing her properly. She sighs through her nose after he pulls away, pulling her close. “I love you,” he tells her.

“I know.”

He still looks troubled. “I don’t want you to think that… this changes anything. That this changes us. Nadi is—she’s different. She wasn’t—” he catches himself, mouth turning down into a scowl, before he takes a breath. “I care about her. I care about you. I…” he trails off, lost for words, then frowns. “I’m not explaining myself very well.”

“I am not asking you to choose between us,” Ziah replies, amused.

“You will always be my choice,” he says, unhesitant. “Every time. But it’s not about _choosing_ one of you, it’s—I want— _ugh._ I need to think about it.”

She reaches up again, stroking his cheek, heart thumping when he turns his head and kisses her palm, though he does not meet her eyes. She does not tell him that perhaps she should not be his first concern, his only love. He is so young, still: younger than thirty, if she remembers correctly. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? It does not matter. His life has so much to offer. “Still, I would like to meet her. You love her, and the people love her. I wish to know why. I wish to see why she is your spring.”

Asra smiles at that, smile bright against the night. “You’ll love her,” he promises, voice hushed. “I—I hope you’ll love her.”

“I hope so, too,” she whispers back.

“You two might have to warm up to each other first.”

She huffs a laugh. After, there is a long moment of quiet consideration. His fingers trace an aimless pattern on her hip, the softness of her belly. 

He eventually hums, and with a wicked, dimpled grin, says, “Hm. I believe I promised you three orgasms a few hours ago.”

He remembers. Of course he does.

She rolls her eyes. “I wish you luck,” she tells him, sincerely.

He touches his chest in mock woundedness, though he’s laughing. “Your lack of faith _hurts_. It’s hurtful. I’m hurt. Just for that I’ll make it four.” She audibly scoffs and he laughs, leaning forward, his rose quartz pendant falling to dangle above her chest. As he stares down at her, soft affection in his eyes, the amusement fades to seriousness. “Can I touch your back this time?”

Ziah swallows, and after several long moments of deliberation, she nods. Asra grins and sits on his haunches, waiting as she sits up. He kisses her as he takes hold of her robe, gently pushing it down her shoulders to rest at her elbows. He breaks the kiss then and waits, and Ziah takes a deep breath, lifting her arms to free herself of the robe. She wraps her arms around him as he reaches around her and shucks the robe from the bed, letting it flutter to the floor.

He sits back and pulls her into his lap, smiling when her breath hitches, though her legs unfold to wrap around him, knees tucked against his sides and her ankles crossed at the small of his back. Her arms tighten around his shoulders and he moves until his back is to the wall, which forces her legs to spread wider to accommodate the lack of space.

Asra reaches up, smoothing back stray hairs that have come loose from her braid. His other hand moves from her hip to curve around her body. She tenses when his fingertips move up, when his palm presses flat against the center of her back where the worst of her scars are. Several long moments pass, but his hand does not move, and she relaxes, exhaling hard. Her heart is hammering.

“No pain?” Asra whispers.

“No pain,” she tells him. “Only you.”

One day, the scars on her back will not haunt her. One day, when they are touched, she will only think of Asra’s hands on her. She eagerly looks forward to that day. Asra smiles and kisses her, and while she is distracted, he lowers the hand at her cheek to the wet heat between her legs. She gasps at the first brush against her clit, hips shifting into his touch.

“Sensitive?” he asks, with a satisfied tone of voice that implies he knows the answer.

“You’re a terrible tease,” she replies, winding a hand in his hair and tugging. Asra snickers, firming his touch, using his palm at the small of her back to help her rock against his hand. It’s an awkward position, one that cannot be easy on his wrist, and after a moment she shifts, getting to her knees, which lets him maintain an easier angle. “Better?”

“Perfect,” he murmurs, peppering kisses over her breasts, nuzzling her heart. He moves his hand down to cup her sex, then presses the heel of his hand against her clit. She gasps, a tremble running through her legs, and rests her cheek atop his head. She listens to Asra’s breaths, calmer than before, and his heartbeat as he slips first one finger into her, then two. She is so wet she takes him easily. He curls his fingers inside her, his other hand moving down her hip to squeeze and knead her ass.

“Look at you, Mizi,” he whispers, and she cannot stop her whimper, grinding down against his hand. She’s close, and he has barely begun. He kisses her throat, whispers against her skin, “Beautiful. I love you so much.”

“Ah—Asra—” She clutches at him, thighs trembling beyond her control. She has a terrible feeling that her legs will give out if he keeps touching her, and she will simply fall to the bed. Asra sucks her nipple into his mouth, curling his tongue around the peak at the same time his fingers crook and his palm presses _down_ —

She comes with the ghost of his name trapped in her throat, curling forward, shuddering in his arms. Her cunt squeezes his fingers, rippling, and she grips Asra’s hair and shoulder, burying her face in his throat. “Good,” he croons in her ear, “good, Mizi, just like that.”

His hand does not stop. The air is thick with the sounds of her pleasure, her gasps and moans and the wet sounds of his fingers fucking her, his whispered praise that makes her skin break out in gooseflesh. (Good, she is good, she is good, she is loved—)

His thumb brushes her clit, and she whimpers, tightening her hold on him. She jerks, twitching with the aftershocks of her orgasm, but his arm—wrapped around her waist, holding her fast against his chest—does not let her pull away. She whimpers, oversensitive, every nerve prickling. It hurts, but she does not shy from this pain, not yet. She is not certain this is a pain she _wants_ to turn away from.

Before she can decide, Asra says, “You’re so good, Mizi. So good. I love you. Can you give me another one?”

His voice is honey, silk, smooth as murmured shadows.

Still, she hears him distantly, as if she is underwater; she curls forward, gasping against his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. She feels surrounded by his warmth, his aura, immobilized by the pleasure-pain that shocks through her, unable to do anything but listen, _feel_. She cannot hear whatever noises he is pulling from her, whether they are moans or whimpers or pleas—she can only hear him. He’s still whispering to her, and every one of his praises warms her, makes her feel the bolts of pleasure he coaxes from her body far more acutely.

She does not know how long it takes, but when she comes again, it is when she is sweatsoaked, leaning against him, no longer able to stand on her knees. Her toes curl until they cramp and her hitched breath against his throat sounds like a sob. She shakes as her orgasm washes over her, and is left slumped in his arms, boneless, aching.

Asra’s arms are tight around her. “Two,” he says, far too smugly for his own good. She says nothing, too sapped of energy for coherent thought, but she manages a small laugh, mostly muffled by his shoulder.

The night is not so dark, now; the skies are graying with the onset of dawn.

“And it only took two hours,” she finally says, dryly. She takes a deep breath. Her legs are still trembling. Her whole body feels numb.

Asra laughs. “I don’t think it was that long, but even if it was? Worth it.” He carefully pulls his hand from her, kissing her cheek when she whimpers, and lowers her to the bed. His fingers are pruned and paler than his usual golden-brown skintone, shining with her slick. She watches as he sucks his fingers clean, closing his eyes at the taste of her. “Mm. Delicious.”

She shakes her head, and Asra grins at her, tongue curling around the pad of his longest finger, his skin wrinkled to the knuckle. She rasps a curse and he laughs, shifting her in his lap, gently setting her on the bed. “Was that good for you?” he asks, and his prior confidence wavers, replaced with uncertainty. “Or was it too much?”

She pauses, considering. It had been too much, and that had been what had made it good. She does not think it could be a regular occurrence, but perhaps once or twice more, later… she would not be opposed to once or twice more, she thinks. Later. Once she can walk again.

“It was good,” she allows. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, now looking insufferably pleased with himself.

“Water,” she whispers. He kisses her cheek and gets up at once, uncaring of his nakedness as he goes downstairs. She stares at the ceiling, catching her breath, feeling the sweat shining on her body begin to cool. It has stopped raining outside, and as it is very early morning, the neighbors have not even begun to stir.

Asra returns with a glass and a pitcher of water, and she drinks half of it. Asra drinks the rest. He places them both on the dresser, next to the wine bottle full of olive oil they’d used last night, and sits heavily on the edge of the bed. Ziah scoots down until she can press her chest to his bowed back, resting her cheek at the nape of his neck. Her nails draw random patterns on his shoulders, making him shiver.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” he says. “I checked.”

“Come to sleep,” she bids, softly. “The shop does not open for another few hours. I know you must be tired.”

He shifts in her arms at once, tugging her down to the mattress and pulling her close. He kisses her inner wrist, lips lingering at her pulsepoint, and after several minutes of cuddling and whispering of nothing, he falls asleep first as always, listening to her heartbeat.

—  —  —

She wakes up some time later to find him gone, with a note indicating he’d gone to the palace for the day. But he surprises her a few minutes after she closes the shop for lunch, carrying a mango sharbat in one hand and a loaf of pumpkin bread in another. He greets her with a kiss and goes upstairs.

“I’m only here for lunch,” Asra explains once she joins him upstairs. She raises her eyebrow, moving to grab the breadknife to cut the loaf in two, but he catches her hand, pulling her back and kissing her palm. He looks at her, eyes half-lidded, and his lips curl into a smirk as he says, “Mm, I had something else in mind.”

He gets her on the couch, pulls a pillow from the couch and kneels on it before her. He pushes her skirt to her hips and leaves wet, sucking kisses all up her thighs. When he reaches her sex, he moans and buried his face between her legs, spreading her open with lips and tongue and fingers. He takes her apart, her thighs trembling around his head, her fingers buried in his hair, her mouth open in a silent cry. After she comes, and he has left a hickey on the smooth skin of her left inner thigh, he looks up, smirking, lips and chin wet. “Was that three? I think so. Hm. I’m losing count.”

She rolls her eyes, but cannot stop her smile. She tugs him up to kiss him, tasting herself on his lips and tongue. “Do you want me upstairs,” she whispers, “or here?”

He smirks at her, and the heat in his eyes sends a thrill through her, pooling between her legs. At his choice, she takes him upstairs by the hand and lays him down half-naked on the bed. She slings a leg over his hips so she straddles him, then takes his hands and presses them into the mattress. She aligns him and sinks down in one smooth stroke, making him gasp, bucking up into her.

It does not take long—she had nosed the collar of his shirt aside, leaving his collarbone and part of his shoulder naked to her gaze, and had been busily sucking hickeys into his skin when his hands tighten in hers and he gasps her name and comes inside her. She bears a sigil that prevents pregnancy and her monthly bleeds, but that does not stop Asra from casting a contraceptive spell anyway.

She lets him wrap his arms around her afterward, lets herself linger in the afterglow, nosing at the underside of his chin until her stomach growls. Asra laughs, weakly, his hands trailing up and down her clothed back. “Guess that’s my cue,” he says. “They’re still expecting me at the palace. Just wanted my lunch first.”

She opens her mouth, ready to point out he hadn’t eaten anything, until he smirks at her and she realizes his meaning. Her face heats, surely reddening to an extraordinarily embarrassing degree, and she says, “Must you phrase it that way?”

Her voice is almost a squeak. _Again_.

Asra grins, delighted, eyes crinkling in the corners until they’re slits of purple. “You’re a _snack_ , Mizi,” he says, snickering.

She blushes harder, fighting both the urge to smile and the urge to cover her face with both of her hands. Instead she climbs off of him and tosses his clothes at him. “Oh,” she says, affection warming her voice, “get _out,_ you. I will see you tonight for dinner.”

“ _Yeah_ you will,” he says, laughing too hard to even pretend to put on his pants. She shakes her head and crosses to him, tilting his head up, kissing him fiercely enough to steal his breath. He sighs when she pulls away, tugging her closer and resting his ear over her heartbeat. After a moment, he pulls away. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

“Hale and whole,” she reminds him.

“Always,” he promises. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she returns, and kisses his forehead before returning downstairs to her sharbat and pumpkin bread. Asra dresses upstairs, and when he comes downstairs, he walks across the floor to kiss her cheek.

“Three,” he reminds her.

“You promised me four,” she returns, daring to look at him out of the corner of her eye despite the heat in her cheeks. He smiles and kisses her cheek again.

“Tonight, then,” he promises, and leaves the shop whistling a sea shanty.

(He keeps his promise.)


	10. handle with care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairings: mc/asra  
> warnings: none

He credits himself for this much: he does not panic, after he finds her.

He pulls her from the flames, and carries her back to the shop. He never looks back, not even when he thinks of Ilya, running back into the inferno for a tyrant who’d never done anything for them, and Nadi’s wide eyes reflecting orange as she shouted for water, water—

Water.

He glances down at her and tears burn his eyes, blinding him. Suddenly, the charms keeping her weightless in his arms give out, and he staggers, stumbling as Vesuvia’s citizens fill the streets, drawn by the commotion at the palace. He manages to press against a wall before falling to his knees and clutching her limp form to his, clenching his jaw to fight off his tears until his teeth ache. His fingers bury in her deep blue hair, blue like the night ocean she so adored, once a thick heavy braid but now choppy and short because  _that bastard had cut it all off—_

He feels smooth scales slide across his skin as Faust wriggles out of her hiding place from under his tunic sleeve. Her tongue flicks out, brushing his throat.  _Go. Asra. Go_.

“Right,” he whispers. 

Her head lolls against his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching. He casts a charm again, lifting her with ease, and the expression on his face must be a sight, because the villagers all part around him, providing a clear path to the alley that leads to their shop. A few shout questions at his back, but he does not answer any of them.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to get to the shop. He doesn’t know how long it takes to carry her upstairs, and fill the bath, and remove the melted, ruined outfit from her skin. Some parts of her outfit stick to her body, leaving red marks behind that he heals with a kiss. It is only once she is in the linen-lined tub that he allows himself to weep. Faust curls around him, but it’s not enough.

Asra reaches for her again, burying his nose in her hair as he sobs. Her hair smells of smoke and ash and death, not her usual favored oil mix of rosemary and peppermint. He can even hear in his mind’s ear her voice, low and throaty, as she explains— _it promotes clarity of mind and concentration._ He can see her slight smirk, her mouth draped half in shadow, as she shuffles her deck in her hands.  _Also, it smells nice_.

Her deck is gone, too, burned away in the flames.

With trembling hands, he washes away the soot that coats her body. He washes the dirt and ash from her face and hair, uncaring of the water that sloshes over the tub and wets his tunic. He touches the scars on her back, too deep and too old for him to soothe away with his touch no matter how much he wishes the opposite. He runs his fingers through her too-short hair, biting his lip as he imagines it as it should be: tied into an immaculate braid, swinging around her hips with every movement.

She’ll be devastated if she— _when_  she wakes up.

He mutters a curse under his breath and rests his forehead atop her head, fingers tightening on her shoulder. “Please come back,” he whispers. “Please.”

She remains silent and still, the only evidence of her life the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Asra swallows, hard, blinking away the stray tears that cloud his vision. Faust nuzzles his cheek as he gets his hands under her body and lifts her out of the tub, drying her with a simple spell and setting her gently on the bed. He stares down at her face, eyes closed and mouth slack, and clenches his jaw. After a moment, he turns away, to rifle through the variety of storage in search of her favorite pajamas.

That was her: tossing clothes haphazardly, or dumping laundry into their hammock in the corner instead of using it as the napping spot she’d intended it to be, or even just stuffing them in any open drawer. But every month, the day before the new moon, she would burn eucalyptus leaves and make him help her clean the shop and house above.

His gaze travels to the ebonwood dresser across the room, where a wooden box holding ceramic jars of multi-colored incense sticks sits on top, each jar lovingly if not skillfully labeled. A piece of parchment is tucked under it. His throat closes, and after a moment he rises from where he’d been kneeling beside a basket to pick it up.

_Asra,_

_Don’t forget—masquerade tonight. Wear agate. ~~Lucio will~~ Just in case._

He had. She hadn’t even had to tell him; something in him had  _known_  that he would need the luck.

Asra takes a sharp breath, putting the parchment away as another tear falls, slipping down his cheek, followed by another, another, until he is sobbing openly. He covers his face with his hand, using the other to lean on the dresser, as Faust curls around his arm and hums soft encouragement. After a moment, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and lowers his hand, wiping at the wet skin under his eyes.

She needs him now. He can grieve later.

When he finally finds her favorite pajamas, it’s in the very last drawer, under a mismatched batch of scarves, shawls, and a leather bag full of different gemstone jewelry. He removes his agate ring and drops it into the bag with shaking hands, then gathers up her pajamas and returns to her side.

She is like a limp doll as he dresses her, and he ignores the sickening churn in his stomach as he pulls her paisley shirt over her head and guides her feet through the loose pant legs. Once she’s dressed and safe in their bed, Asra sits by her side, taking her hand in his. He presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist, counting each pulse of her heart. Faust slithers down his arm to coil atop her stomach, lifting her head and tilting it at him.

“She’ll be okay,” he murmurs to Faust. “She… she  _has_  to be okay.”

He doesn’t know what he’d do without her. He doesn’t… he doesn’t even want to  _think_  about what he’d do without her. Not after he just got her back.

Still, despite his forced self-assurance, he does not drop her wrist. Each beat under the pad of his thumb assures him that she is still breathing, still alive, still capable of waking. But his hands are shaking, and all he can smell is smoke and when he looks at her choppy hair he thinks of the tears on her face when she’d collapsed into his arms—

 _Asra_. Faust stretches out her head, rubbing her scales against his arm.  _Breathe._

He does. He inhales until his lungs strain inside his chest, and lets it all out, slowly.  _Slowly_ , he hears her voice in his ear, chiding but amused.  _Or you’ll waste this meditation practice. In, and out. Balance_.

Balance.

He breathes until he’s no longer shaking, no longer wanting to storm back to the palace and making  _absolutely certain_  that Lucio was dead. He holds her wrist and glances down at her face, eyes widening when he sees that her face is tight with tension, her brows furrowed and nose scrunched. He lifts his other hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles down her temple, and concentrates.

He sends a wave of calming energy over her, just as he had practiced a thousand times under her watchful eye, and the knot inside his chest loosens when her expression calms as well. He allows himself a small smile, and brushes the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I’m here,” he whispers to her, just in case she could hear, wherever she was. “You’re safe.”

She does not move, or give any indication that her sleeping soul had heard. He stays with her through the night, his thumb never leaving her pulsepoint. Faust eventually falls asleep on her stomach, and though his eyelids are heavy, he refuses to sleep. He’ll be there when she wakes up.

He will.

He only notices how much time has passed when the first trappings of dawn slant through the window, casting gold upon the floor, orange where it filters through the gauzy red curtains that do little to block out the light. Even then, he stays by her side, as the sun passes through the sky and she does not wake. Slowly, Faust begins to uncoil from her tight circle atop her stomach, and she lifts her head to stare at him, tongue flicking out.

_Eat._

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, keeping his eye on her. Faust slithers over his arm, curling around him, and squeezes his wrist, her head bobbing insistently.

_Eat!_

“I can’t,” he says, tone sharpening. He softens at once, apologizing with a scritch under Faust’s chin. “I’m sorry, Faust, but I can’t. What if she wakes up and I’m not here? I won’t let her wake up alone.”

 _Watch_.

He lowers his gaze to Faust, waiting, but she only stares up at him. It takes him a few moments to realize what she means. “You’ll watch her for me?” he asks, allowing a soft smile. “Hoping for chin scritches when she wakes up?”

Faust slithers up to his shoulder, radiating reassurance and confidence.  _Watch_ , she repeats.  _Eat. Sleep._

His smile fades and he looks down at the wrist in his hand. “All right,” he finally agrees. “But just for a little while.”

Faust slithers down to resume her old space at once, curling in on herself. Asra glances down at the wrist encircled between his fingers and carefully lifts her hand, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm. One last time, he smoothes away the deep blue hairs, but it takes him a long time to take a breath and stand, and an even longer time to let go of her. He crosses the room to the hammock in the corner, weighed down with four different throw pillows. Once he’s settled, he turns his head toward the bed, where Faust is still resting atop of her still form.

Faust flicks her tongue at him.  _Sleep!_

Asra huffs a laugh and settles further into the hammock, getting comfortable. Still, he can’t help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye every once in a while, and it takes a long time for him to relax enough to actually sleep. He calls out to Tiamat in his dreams, hoping he’ll be able to get answers that way, but she does not answer his call, and the night is eerily quiet. His sleep is dark and dreamless, showing nothing but the stars of the night sky.

When he finally wakes again, late in the day, she still is not awake, though Faust maintains a watchful eye over her. Faust meets his anxious gaze, her head tilting, and her tongue flicks out.  _Eat_.

Asra laughs. “I’m going, I’m going.”

He takes a stick of jasmine incense from one of the jars on the dresser, then goes into the kitchen. He finds the kitchen incense holder, an elongated pearlescent wyrm with glittering sapphires for eyes, and places the incense stick between its shoulder blades. Once the stick is burning, filling the kitchen with the soothing scent of jasmine, he gets to work, rummaging around the kitchen to find what he needs. There’s a glass bottle full of goat’s milk in the charmed ice box, and butter. Taking those out, he finds some rice, cinnamon, and sugar.

Rice pudding. Her favorite. When she wakes up, he’ll be by her side, a steaming bowl of rice pudding waiting for her, and everything will be well.

The rice pudding is almost done, and the sun almost set, when he feels Faust perk up above him, sending him a wave of excitement and anticipation. His breath catches and he looks up, though of course all that he sees is the warped floorboards of the attic above him. His hands start to shake, and he sets down the mortar and pestle, trying to calm his racing heart.

 _Asra! Her!_ Faust calls, and he drops everything to sprint toward the staircase, taking it two steps at a time. He rounds the last step, heart racing, and stops at the top of the stairs. She’s awake, utterly still as she stares at Faust, who is still sitting on her belly. Asra watches her throat jerk as she swallows, fear naked in her eyes.

Why is she afraid?

Faust seems to sense it as well, because she quickly shimmies off, dropping to the floor and slithering toward him. He bends down to scoop her up, looking back at her as Faust moves to curl around his shoulders. She stares at him, wide-eyed, and moves backward, back pressing against the wall. Is she—scared of him? Why?

Asra approaches her slowly, and a short, sharp whine escapes her—a sound he has never heard from her before. He stops at once, swallowing the lump in his throat, and holds his hands out, palms up. “Hey,” he says, quietly. “Are you all right? Do you remember what happened?”

As she stares at him, her breathing picks up, quickly becoming short, ragged gasps. Her fingers knot into the sheets and she hunches her shoulders, trying to keep herself as distant and as far as possible. He can see her eyes, shining with unshed tears, the second time he has ever seen it.

There is no recognition on her face. No indication that she knows where she is. That she knows who  _he_  is.

No. No, no, nonono—

Asra’s legs almost give out as he approaches her, slowly, palms still held out. She tucks her knees against her chest, cowering from him. His chest  _burns_  at the sight, his lungs tight, refusing to draw in breath. She doesn’t remember him, she doesn’t  _know_  him, she’s forgotten everything—but he can’t leave her alone like this, panicked and confused. He won’t.

He sits on the bed, as far away from her as possible. “You’re safe,” he whispers, fighting the urge to pull her close and hold her. She’s still tense, still wary; he makes no sudden movements as he lowers his hands to his lap. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Faust rubs her scaled head against his cheek, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

What else has she forgotten?

“Are you hungry?” he asks, opening his eyes once more. She no longer looks frightened, just… confused. Can she understand him? Has she forgotten how to talk? He takes a deep breath and rubs his stomach. “Hungry?” he repeats.

Her brows knit together as, hesitantly, she places her hand on her stomach, repeating his motion. “Hun…” she whispers. “Hun-gree?”

Asra nods, forcing a small, gentle smile, even as something breaks inside him. “Hungry,” he agrees. He lifts his hand, and Faust slithers onto his wrist, wrapping herself around the length of his forearm. He slowly extends his arm toward her—thankfully, she does not recoil from Faust as she had when she saw him, but she does not reach out, either. After a moment, she lifts her hand, her silver gaze flicking to him. He offers another small, encouraging smile and nods.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds out her hand, which Faust slides onto slowly, her tongue flicking out against her skin every once in a while. Once Faust is off of his arm and entirely in her arms, he exhales, meeting her gaze again. “Faust,” he says, nodding toward his familiar.

Her eyes dart down to regard the snake in her arms, and she lifts a shaking hand to run a finger down the length of Faust’s back. Faust lifts herself up, swaying forward, and her tongue flicks out to brush against her nose. Her nose wrinkles at once, but she laughs, a soft, hesitant sound that almost breaks him.

Her old laughter, though rare, had never been hesitant—loud, and brash, and likely to go on for minutes if the joke was good enough. Once he’d had her laughing so hard that nothing came out of her mouth except wheezing noises, and she had clapped to show her delight, tears in her eyes. That had been a good day.

“Faust,” she murmurs.

Asra stands up, and she sees him at once, frowning at him. “It’s all right,” he says, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. “I’m going to get you some food, okay? I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t understand him; her face is still twisted up, naked in its confusion. He hadn’t realized how expressive she truly is—she had always been rare to smile, and hid her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of indifference or grudging pride. Asra turns away, ignoring the soft protest she makes, and walks down to the kitchen on jellied legs.

What had Lucio  _done_  to her? Cutting off her hair was one thing, but taking her memories? Taking her  _identity?_  Or something else he didn’t know? Asra touches his chest reflexively, biting the inside of his cheek, and forces his hand down to his side.

The rice pudding had cooled in his absence. He reheats it at once, mixing the rice and milk to ensure it didn’t get too clumpy, and grinds the cinnamon sticks until nothing is left in the mortar but fine powder. She’d always loved cinnamon. If seeing him wasn’t enough to combat whatever had happened to her memories, well, maybe her favorite food would do the trick.

He sprinkles a liberal amount of sugar and cinnamon over her bowl of rice pudding, and puts in a stick of it too, for good measure. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the bowls of rice pudding and goes back up the steps. She hadn’t moved in his absence, but Faust is curled around her bicep and shoulders, though she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s staring at the steps, instead. When she sees him, he sees a tension in her expression ease, and hears her quiet exhale.

He smiles at her and sits on the bed, closer this time. “Told ya I’d be back. I wouldn’t leave you.” He offers her a bowl of rice pudding, the one with the extra sugar and cinnamon, and she takes it, cupping it in both her hands. She stares down at the food with a knitted brow and looks back at him, as if thinking  _what am I supposed to do with this?_

Asra clears his throat, and, holding her gaze, says, “Eat.” He waits for her to repeat the word,  _eat_ , before taking up his spoon and scooping up a bit of the rice pudding. Holding her gaze, he brings the spoon to his mouth, closing his lips over it. She watches him in silence as he sets the spoon back in the bowl and chews. A few moments later, he touches the underside of his chin and drags his fingers down his neck, emphasizing the bob of his throat as he swallows.

He does the same thing twice more before she decides to mimic him. He watches as she scoops up a spoonful of rice pudding, chews, and swallows, watching him carefully all the while. He smiles and nods, eating his rice pudding alongside her, and she does not stop until the bowl is empty. She licks the spoon for leftovers when she’s done, something she’s never done before.

“Well done,” he says once she puts the spoon back in its bowl, reaching out to take the bowl from her. Faust rubs herself under her chin, and she reaches up to absently scratch at Faust’s head. He stacks the bowls and sets them on the dresser, next to the incense sticks, and returns to her bedside. When Faust lifts her head and stretches toward him, he reaches out without a thought, disentangling her and letting her drape herself over his shoulders.

“Faust,” she murmurs, and he nods.

“Faust is my familiar,” he says. “Do you remember her?”

Her gaze flits back to his face, and she leans forward, brow furrowing again. Asra does not dare breathe as she stops only a few inches away from him, staring at him like he’s an experiment, something unfamiliar.  _Remember me_ , he begs, silently.  _Please remember me._

“You,” she mutters. “You…”

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Me,” he coaxes, but she pulls back, shaking her head and looking disappointed. When she ducks her head, a flush darkening her brown skin, Asra takes her hand in his and presses it to his chest, over his heart. “Asra,” he says. “I’m  _Asra_.”

She doesn’t react. He swallows, hard, and ignores the sting in the corners of his eyes when he releases her hand. “Asra,” she says. He nods. After a moment, she removes her hand from his chest, and places it over her own heart. “Asra?”

Despite himself, he laughs, rough and hoarse. “No,” he says. “No. You—” he places his hand over her own and presses down, willing her to remember. He holds her gaze and says, “You are  _Ziah_.”

“Ziah,” she repeats. He watches her expression carefully, but there is no flicker of recognition on her face. No sign that she knows her name. It’s just another word to her.

He drops her hand, ignoring the instinct to hold her in his arms and never let go. He looks away, swallowing hard.  _She’ll remember_ , he thinks.  _She has to. It’ll only be a matter of time_.

It is what he tells himself the next day, when he has to teach her how to walk again—gently coaxing her from the bed, allowing her to hold onto his arms with a death grip as he helped her stumble across the room. When he has to re-teach her how to eat. How to speak. How to read. How to take care of herself.

It is what he tells himself before their fourth night’s dinner, when she is watching how he prepares their fresh trout—cutting off the head and tail, removing the entrails, filleting it—with rapt attention, though  _she_  had been the first to teach him anything about cooking. As an orphan, he’d contented himself with scraps. He hadn’t known anything about food until he came to her.

It is what he tells himself the morning of the sixth day, when he returns from the baker, a loaf of pumpkin bread safe in his hands, only to find her sitting in front of the phonograph she’d never used—offered as payment, once, by an old man in search of a potion to make his wife love him again. Some machine from a country out east, where railroads and vehicles powered by steam roamed the land.

Her blue hair shines in the sunlight filtering through the open window, and his breath catches at the sight. He thinks to the city outside their home, buildings and people draped in black and indigo, mourning their beloved Count’s death. Lucio had provided entertainment and relative security, and in turn, they had turned a blind eye to his cruelty and vanity.

Asra had gone out into the city wearing the most colorful clothes he could find.

“Asra,” Ziah says once she sees him, a stunning, crookedly toothy smile lighting up her face. The sight warms and disconcerts him—before the accident, her smiles had always been small, enigmatic, close-mouthed. Now she doesn’t hesitate to laugh, to smile, and while it’s… nice, even endearing, it’s also strange, because he knows it is not  _her_.

“Ziah,” he greets with a smile, holding up the pumpkin bread. “I got something for you. Want to guess what it is?”

Her eyes light up and her smile widens as she gets to her feet, dusting off her dark purple pants. “What?” she asks, approaching him. Only a few days and she’s making so much progress—the first two days, all she could manage were babblings, syllables rather than words. It gives him hope. He offers it to her and watches as she gingerly unfolds the loaf, inhaling its scent. “Oh, it smells nice.”

An instant later, she winces, the bread tumbling from her hands. Asra catches it and straightens up immediately, reaching for her before pulling back. Ziah cradles her head in her hands and Asra moves away just long enough to put the bread on the counter. Then he’s back at her side, guiding her to their rickety kitchen table, helping her sit.

“Mizi, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

He winces at the unintentional slip of her nickname. She shakes her head, rubbing at her temples. When she lifts her head, Asra sees blood trickling from her nose. His eyes widen and, muttering a curse, he snatches a tea towel from its crumpled place on a countertop and sits before her, carefully dabbing at the blood. She watches his face as he wipes away her blood, but her gaze is distant, as if she is staring through him rather than at him.

“Ziah?” He touches her wrist, and she jerks away, startling so badly she almost falls out of the chair. She catches herself before that happens, though, and she buries her face in her trembling hands. Asra waits, uncertain, until she lifts her head again, eyes betraying her panic. He feels helpless, sitting before her, unable to do anything as she fights her own mind.

“Asra,” she whispers. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, his voice just as quiet. He reaches out and gently touches her shoulder. “I… were you remembering something?”

He doesn’t know if he wants her to remember. Not if it means she’ll get hurt.

“It was… I don’t know. The smell.” She drops one hand to shove the pumpkin bread away. It slides across the table, slowing to a stop at the very edge. After a moment, she lifts her head, and he sees that her left nostril is encrusted with blood. Asra swallows and licks the tea towel before leaning forward. He holds her cheek steady with his left hand as he gently wipes away the drying blood around her nose and mouth. Her hands are shaking, and as he lowers the towel, he reaches for them, twining their fingers together. She glances down before looking back at him, frowning. “I don’t wish to feel that pain again.”

Asra swallows. “I don’t want to see you in pain,” he says. She blinks at him, jaw clenching, before offering a small, weak smile. After a moment, she pulls her hands away, and he releases her, dropping his hands into his lap. He watches her face, searching for hints of discomfort or pain, but her expression is placid as she looks back at him.

If she had reacted like that when she saw pumpkin bread again… he can’t imagine what would happen to her if she remembered other, more substantial memories. If she tried to remember Ilya, or Nadi.

Asra swallows and stands. She looks up, moving to stand as well, but stops when he shakes his head. “I’m just getting something,” he says, as gently as he can. Once she settles back, he goes upstairs, glancing around the familiar room. It had been hers, once, but now it is theirs—he sees Faust’s favorite pillow under the hammock, and a collection of wooden animals on a windowsill that she’d brought back for him, and scarves thrown all over the floor.

He finds her collection of gems and semi-precious stones in a Hjallan tortoiseshell end table, resting in the belly of a black enamel teapot decorated with pink and golden roses. The lid of it had gone missing years ago, and they’d never been able to find it, not even when she burned her eucalyptus leaves and spent the entire day cleaning the shop and the house above it. The pot radiates with her magic, warm and soothing, and Asra lets himself linger as he roots through the teapot. Finally, his fingers close around a smooth piece of lepidolite. He pulls it out, turning so the sigil faces him, and traces the colors trapped within the stone, clouds of silver and pink against a sea of deep purple.

She’d said his eyes looked like lepidolite, once. He wonders if she would ever remember that.

He rolls the smooth stone between his fingers, thumb brushing against the sigil carefully carved into its surface, and feels her magic swell up at once, washing a calming energy over him. He closes his eyes, savoring the feel of it, then takes a deep breath and returns downstairs.

He sees Ziah gnawing on her lower lip, her fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm on the table. Faust is curled around one of her arms, tongue flicking, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. The pumpkin bread remains where she’d pushed it away, untouched. He sits across from her, and Faust uncurls herself to slither over to Asra.  _Doesn’t remember_ , she says, and he can sense the grief underneath her words. He comforts her with a gentle stroke down her neck and lets her wriggle into his tunic, taking up her favorite position around his shoulders.

“What were you doing with the phonograph?” he asks. She blinks, coming back to herself, and glances at him. He waits, but all she does is stare, her brow furrowing in confusion until he realizes she hadn’t understood what he said. So he offers a gentle smile and nods toward the phonograph. “What were you doing?”

“What were you… oh!” Her face brightens and she laughs, standing up. He watches as she kneels before the phonograph, pulling out a thin cover made of some flexible wood. She shakes it a little, and a black disc slips out into her hands. She stands, lifting up some part of the phonograph, and sets the disc on the record player. After a moment, she moves the needle, and staticky, soft music fills the room. She gives him a triumphant grin, hands lifting to tuck the too-short edges of her hair behind her ears, and his heart breaks just a little bit more.

“So that’s what you were working on while I was out?” he asks, and her expression turns blank, eyes narrowing as she tries to puzzle out what he’d said. After a moment, she nods, though it’s clear she’s not entirely sure what he’d asked her. Asra gives her a reassuring smile, rising to his feet and joining her side. “Ziah, this is amazing.”

It is. She had had no interest in it, after she accepted it as payment for a sale; it had served as decoration, and nothing else. She had preferred the quiet, or the soft music of her kalimba. But that was before the fire. Reminded of his task, Asra lifts his hand, uncurling his fingers to reveal the lepidolite in the center of his palm. “Here,” he says. “I have a gift for you.”

Ziah takes it, blinking, and he sees at once how her own magic works over her. The tension in her shoulders, so slight that even he had missed it, relaxes at once, and the tightness in the corners of her eyes eases. “Food?” she asks, eyeing him and rolling the stone between her fingers. Asra laughs, shaking his head and reaching out, closing her fingers over the engraved stone.

“No, a gift,” he says. “For you.”

Ziah grins, showing her beautifully crooked teeth, and his chest throbs, a bittersweet pain as he looks at her and thinks of her when she had been somber and solemn. She steps forward, the movement light and fluid as water, and offers him her free hand. “Want to move?” she asks. “I dream we moved to music, once.”

“Move? Do you mean dance?”

She blinks at him, eyes silver and clear, and nods, her smile fading. She does not repeat herself, a flush rising on her cheeks. Asra forces a grin and at once pulls her to the rug-covered floor, far away from their dining table. They dance to the scratchy song until she’s laughing, loud and unabashed, her arms thrown over his shoulders as he twirls and dips her and lets her step on his toes. His heart aches at the sight, but he throws himself into this moment—refusing, for now, to think of missing memories, and missing lovers, and missing friends. All he concentrates on is her, and on her wide, crooked smile, and on making her laugh until her embarrassment is forgotten.

It’s all he can do, at the moment. Until she remembers who she is, and swears him into silence for witnessing her like this—uncertain of everything, and graceless, but smiling, the complete opposite of the solemn, stern woman he has come to know and adore over the years. He’s fairly certain that the moment she remembers, she will know that he’s seen her dancing (terrible, but he loves it anyway), and her actual smile (crooked, and beautiful), and heard her laugh more often in one week than he’s ever heard out of her in all the years he’s known her. And once she knows that, she’ll swear him to secrecy, which  _he_  knows he won’t be able to honor.

She lifts her arm and he twirls under it, returning her breathless smile when he faces her once again. When he pulls her to him she laughs and accidentally steps on his toes. Asra hides his wince and laughs with her, feeling Faust swaying along to the beat of the music around his shoulders. She’ll remember, and years from now, they’ll have a laugh about it.

And if she never remembers—

Asra spins her again and swallows, smiling when she faces him, her hands tight on his shoulders.

If she never remembers—

 _She’ll remember_ , he insists to himself.  _She will. It’s only a matter of time._


	11. unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: asra/mc  
> warnings: uhhh not precisely an anxiety attack but ziah gets overwhelmed and is on the verge of a breakdown, so, warnings for that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by one of asra's postcards in the mini game update that says "you're getting better and better around crowds. you're amazing, ziah." ... WHICH WOULD IMPLY, once upon a time, that mc was not good around crowds!
> 
> also rags (former-lushemployee-asra, who is incredible) is 100% responsible for anxious ziah, blame her for this. ft. pre-game, post-amnesia ziah

The twelfth day after the fire is one of her quiet days. He had feared she’d forgotten _how_ to talk, the first time she’d had a quiet day, but that isn’t true. She remembers how to talk, it’s just that she doesn’t want to—and when she does, she limits her words to a handful of syllables.

That’s fine with Asra. So long as she remembers who he is and can communicate with him if she has to, he doesn’t mind her quiet days at all.

He comes back from the market to a house stinking of jasmine incense, and walks up the stairs to see Ziah sitting in her chair, staring at the wall, utterly still except for her hands—which run through her too-short hair, over and over again, a nervous habit she had quickly developed in the fire’s aftermath. She’s dressed for the day, to his surprise; usually she’s content to spend the day in her pajamas.

“Hi, Ziah,” he says. She doesn’t look away from the wall. He doesn’t let himself worry. He hums a sea shanty under his breath as he crosses the room, placing his messenger bag on the counter. “The market was really good to me today. Lots of deals.”

He pulls out rice, netted mangoes and oranges, even a pineapple; he’s not too fond of the fruit, but she has developed a liking to it. He dresses heads of lettuce and rinses carrots in purified water, and sets out two loaves of pumpkin bread on the dining table, directly within her reach.

But it is not until he’s put everything away and fixed two bowls of rice pudding, complete with extra sugar and ground cinnamon, that she finally looks away from the wall, and he allows himself to breathe. She keeps one hand in her too-short hair, and uses the other to eat with her spoon.

“Market,” she finally says, very quietly.

“Mhm,” Asra agrees, through a mouthful of rice pudding. He takes a moment to swallow before speaking again. “I went to the market today. It’s huge. I didn’t know if you would want to go or not, because you can really get lost if you’ve never been there before. But if we go together, it should be all right. Do you want to go to the market today?”

He does feel a little guilty, asking her this. She’s been cooped up here for twelve days; she’s only seen Asra and Faust, because the shop has been closed since the fire. Going to the market and seeing all those new, unfamiliar faces, being exposed to all the market has to offer… it might be overwhelming to her.

Or it could be good for her.

He doesn’t know which it’ll be. But he believes in her.

She looks hesitant, confused, the face she makes when he’s talked too fast and she’s trying to puzzle out what he’d said. He repeats himself, slowly, enunciating every word, and after a moment relief blooms stark across her face when she understands. She smiles at him, showing her crooked teeth, and it is such a refreshing change Asra grins back, letting his dimples flash.

Three days ago, she’d woken up and spoken to him in a language he didn’t understand. It hadn’t taken her long to realize he didn’t have a clue what she was saying, and she hadn’t spoken the rest of the day.

This—this is infinitely preferable.

After a moment, she nods. “Market,” she says again.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s finish eating first, okay? Then we can go to the market.”

“Market.”

“ _Food_ ,” Asra says, holding her gaze as he eats a mouthful of rice pudding. She laughs and follows his example, licking bits of rice pudding from her spoon. When both their bowls are empty, Asra collects their dishes and puts them in the sink. He puts the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder and grins at her. “All right. Ready?”

She nods.

It’s not a long walk to the market—about fifteen minutes or so—but Ziah stays a silent shadow at his side all the while. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, observing as she slows her step occasionally, taking in the limited scenery of the flooded districts they live in. Not so flooded anymore, thanks to her work only a few weeks earlier, but still run-down.

Once she stops at the canal and stares at the vampire eels for five minutes, until Asra grows uncomfortable with the fascination on her face and gently guides her away from the water. Then she notices the indigo and black draperies that cover the windows of every house and tenement they pass, and her mouth drops open.

“Pretty,” she whispers to him, as if confessing a great secret.

Asra looks up. Most of the drapes aren’t that fancy—not like in the richer upper districts, where people could afford bolts of dyed silk with embroidered edges—but he can see why she would think that. He lowers his gaze and sees her watching him, expectantly, gnawing on her lip as she waits for his response.

“They are, aren’t they?” he asks, smiling softly. The urge to reach for her hand, to press his thumb to her wrist where he can feel her pulse, is a physical ache in his chest. But she’s not herself, not anymore, and even the smallest things can startle her, sometimes. She’s still a little afraid of Faust, who is currently dozing in one of the palace’s gardens, digesting several kitchen mice.

He keeps his hands by his sides.

“After the market, I’ll take you uptown,” he promises. “It’s quieter there, and they have a lot of gardens I think you’d like.”

She smiles at him and nods, and the rest of the walk is spent in silence. When they are almost there, he notices her brow furrow, notices her hand lift to touch the ends of her hair, then press against her ear. “Ziah?” he asks. “Everything okay?”

She looks at him and nods, but she looks frightened, like on days she forgets how to do something she thinks should be simple and is on the verge of a breakdown. Asra stops walking, and Ziah does too, her gaze flicking around the street. “Ziah,” he says, “if you want to return to the shop, that’s okay. Okay? Whatever you want. I don’t mind if you want to go home, really.”

She shakes her head, but her gaze is averted, and she’s chewing on her lip again. Asra almost calls it off, almost tries to coax her into returning to the shop with him, but before he can talk she turns and marches off toward the market. He quickens his step, catching up to her easily. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay, so, we’re doing this. Just—stay with me, please. I don’t want you getting lost.”

Ziah nods.

When they finally reach the floating markets, it’s almost noon, almost the height of the daytime rush. Asra glances at her out of the corner of his eye, his heart sinking when he sees her expression of quiet anxiety.

He should’ve waited for the end of the day, when the market was quieter. He shouldn’t have brought her here now—there are too many smells, too many voices, too many heartbeats. Especially since she hasn’t left the shop until now.

He distracts her with a careful touch to her elbow. She jerks, wide silver eyes moving from the stalls to his face. After a moment, the tension in her shoulders ease and she offers him a small, hollow-looking smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Look,” he says, gently guiding her to the flower merchant, Jain, who brightens at their approach. He watches her regard the flowers in somber silence before reaching out, brushing her fingertips against a cluster of yellow blooms. Primroses, he thinks, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t even think as he reaches into his purse and finds a handful of freshwater pearls.

“Will this do?” he asks Jain, who nods.

“A cluster for you, Asra?” they ask. “Any tithonias today?”

“No,” he says, “just one primrose.”

Jain smiles and nods again, pocketing the pearls. Ziah lowers her hand at the florist’s approach, stepping back and glancing down, her hands moving to press against her stomach, picking at her nails. After a moment she stops herself, swallowing. Jain cuts a primrose bloom from the cluster of small flowers and offers it to Asra, who in turn offers it to Ziah.

“For you,” he says. “Do you like it?”

She smiles at him, a flush darkening her cheeks, and lifts the primrose bloom, tucking it into the space above his ear. Asra’s breath catches, and Ziah bites her lip, looking uncertain until he grins widely at her. Only then does she relax and smile back at him. It is hesitant, but it is there.

“Aw,” says Jain, smiling. “Asra, aren’t you going to tell me who your companion is? Have you taken an apprentice at last?”

Asra glances over to her. Ziah had been one of Jain’s regulars; they always had tithonias in stock for her or for Asra. Sometimes _both_ of them bought tithonia bouquets, which inevitably led to one bouquet being stored in the brass amphora and another being stored in a tall drinking glass.

Why doesn’t Jain remember her? Why do they think Ziah was his apprentice?

He wonders, briefly, if it’s connected to whatever had caused Ziah to forget. He bites his cheek in thought, before realizing that Jain is looking at him expectantly, and Ziah has lowered her gaze again, looking uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he says, “I was just lost in thought. Jain, this is Ziah, my… uh, my apprentice. Ziah, this is Jain. They’re the florist—they grow the tithonias you like.”

Ziah’s face brightens and she lifts her head, smiling at Jain. “Thank you,” she tells them, and they chuckle.

“She _really_ loves your tithonias,” Asra says.

“In that case, perhaps I should give you some? As a welcome gift to Vesuvia, of course.” Asra starts to protest, but Jain shushes him. They move to the other end of their stall, picking up a boquet of red tithonias wrapped in wax paper, Ziah’s favorite. Ziah bites her lip again, but it’s an attempt to stifle her smile, not a signal of her nervousness. After a moment her mouth curves into a full-on grin and she ducks her head again.

He’s missed her smile.

“So,” Jain says, utterly at ease, “how are you finding Vesuvia?”

Ziah glances over at Asra, and he shrugs.

“Good,” Ziah finally says. “I like Asra.”

Jain grins at that, dark eyes crinkling in the corners. “Ah, but who doesn’t?” They wink at him. “Asra delivered my niece, you know. She was a breech baby. My sister would have died without him. He was a blessing during the worst of the plague, I swear.”

Asra laughs, then coughs and looks away, feeling a flush rise on his cheeks. Ziah had been there for Jain’s niece’s birth—she had sat with him, watching and offering encouragement as he put all of her training into practice. Jain had been there, too; it’s strange that they don’t remember that detail of the night. It’s strange that they don’t remember Ziah, as if…

As if Ziah had been wiped from their memory.

He frowns at that thought, and his gaze travels from Jain’s booth to Ammar’s. Ammar’s booth is smaller than Jain’s, and less colorful. His is a tiered display draped in linen, showcasing his various gemstones and crystals, as well as a selection of necklaces and chokers. Ziah had sold her excess gems to him. Surely Ammar would remember her.

But when he bids Jain goodbye and gently steers Ziah, who had buried her face in the tithonias, toward Ammar, the gem merchant greets only him. “Asra! Welcome, welcome. And who, might I ask, is your companion this beautiful afternoon?”

“Ziah,” he says, watching Ammar’s face. There’s nothing—just placid acceptance. He greets Ziah, who smiles but other than that doesn’t look up from her flowers, and turns to Asra.

“A necklace or choker for the lady, then?” he asks, gesturing to the variety of stones and necklace chains. All he had to do was pick a stone and Ammar would make jewelry out of it. It was why Ziah had liked him so much, and why they have so many rings and necklaces of random gemstones.

Asra turns to Ziah. “Is there anything you want?” he asks, smiling. “Just say the word.”

Ziah blinks at him, then lifts her head. She approaches, giving Ammar a nervous smile, and then reaches out to touch a length of plain black velvet fashioned into a choker.

“That one?” Asra asks, and Ziah nods. Asra smiles and pays Ammar, who offers to wrap the choker before Asra shakes his head. He takes the choker from Ammar and turns to Ziah. “All right. Can I put it on you?”

Ziah nods, turning around at his prompting. He carefully fastens the choker’s clasp, fingertips brushing against the skin at the nape of her neck. When she shivers, he swallows hard. Before, he would have moved closer, uncaring of Ammar and the market-goers, and kissed the spots his fingers brushed.

But she doesn’t remember him. She doesn’t remember their relationship.

So he lets his hands fall to his sides, and when she turns around, he smiles. “You look great,” he assures her, to her soft, uncertain smile. After thanking Ammar, he gently steers her to cross a canal, walking across the bridge to another square of floating market. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots brightly colored birds, one of which is perched on a child’s arm. Parrots, he thinks, and not the black-feathered species native to Vesuvia’s surrounding forest. One of the birds is black-feathered with a white face, with a massive yellow-and-orange beak. Toucans from Prakra, he thinks. Nadi had talked about them, once.

But it isn’t until the animal merchant takes the parrot from the child and pulls a kitten from a basket that Asra decides to head over. Without looking, he asks Ziah to follow him and heads over. He asks for a kitten and the merchant pulls another one from the basket, gray-furred and blue-eyed. It mewls in his arms and Asra laughs, stroking its head with a finger as it tries to climb up his arm.

“What do you think, Ziah?” he asks. “You think Faust and this little guy would get along?”

He looks up, turning to where Ziah should be, but sees only empty space and other market-goers preoccupied with different wares. He gently gives the kitten back to its handler, making a mental note to return and ask what happens to the unsold animals, and refocuses on the marketplace.

He’d had his back turned for five minutes, _at most_ —she couldn’t have gotten far. He calls out her name, but receives no response. And Faust is at the palace, so she can’t help him look for her. He’s alone in this.

He hisses a curse, pushing forward past the throng of shoppers. “Ziah?” he calls. “ _Ziah?_ ”

There’s a break in the crowd, and he sees a fallen bouquet of tithonias. He inhales and hurries forward, scooping them from the dirty cobblestone floor. No one had stepped on them, thankfully, though a few blossoms are crushed from the fall. He touches one broken petal and looks up, scanning the crowd. His heart is racing, chest tight.

If he’s lost her—

He closes his eyes, forces himself to _breathe_. He knows how to find her. He just needs to listen.

He stands still in the middle of the ever-moving marketplace, letting the flow of the market move around him. His first lesson had been patience; his second had been listening. He would never hear as much of the world as she did, but he had taught himself to hear everything he could, and he had taught himself how to avoid getting overwhelmed.

So he listens.

He filters out the tread of footsteps upon the ground, the murmur of voices and squawks of birds, the heartbeats whose pulses do not match his own. He makes the world go quiet, until everything is dulled and faint, distant; until he can only hear his own heartbeat, and—there.

He hears a racing heartbeat that matches his, and opens his eyes. Still keeping the world quiet, he follows the sound to rolled up carpets piled atop each other, halfway across the market. He rounds it and finds a small niche, shadowed and hidden from prying eyes.

Ziah is curled up in a corner, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clasped over her ears. Her fingers grip her hair, clenching and unclenching around the too-short ends in spasmic intervals. A muffled whimper leaves her bitten-raw lips, a sound he never would have heard had he not quieted the world around him.

“Ziah,” he says, and his voice cracks. He enters the niche and draws the shadows behind them, discouraging anyone who had seen him standing beside the carpets from investigating.

She lifts her gaze, and her eyes are glassy in the shadows of the carpet pile. The shame on her face breaks his heart. She looks back down, her fingers curling, nails digging into her scalp. “Too much,” she whispers. “Too much, hurts, too much…”

And then he understands.

He remembers the first time he had truly _listened_ : he had looked at her, almost overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sound, of _life_ , in the world, and he had asked: “There’s so much noise. How do you not go crazy, listening to all this?”

She had only said, “I am used to it.”

But now—now, she’s not used to it, not used to the bustle of life, of hearing hundreds of different heartbeats on top of a thousand different conversations and voices and other sounds of the marketplace. It would be overwhelming for anyone, and he’s amazed that she kept it hidden from him so long.

He should have realized. He should have _known_. She’d shown him signs of her discomfort even before the marketplace, and he’d ignored them.

And he doesn’t know how to help her, other than to bring her home. But if she’s like this…

“This is my fault,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Mizi.”

He bites his tongue at the nickname slip, but she doesn’t even notice, thankfully. He kneels in front of her, carefully, keeping his movements slow and overt. She doesn’t move, and he gently places the tithonias on the ground. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, Ziah, can you hear me? If you can hear me, I want you to take a deep breath. Nice and slow.”

She does.

“Okay. Hold it. Great. You’re doing great. Now exhale, and breathe in again. Slowly, not too fast. Listen to your breath. Focus on nothing but your breath, okay? Just your breath.”

Her brow furrows, her eyes squeezing shut. He swallows hard. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I’m so sorry_. “Great. Now, let the other sounds drain away. Don’t let yourself hear anything other than your breath, your heartbeat, and my voice. Let the world go quiet.”

“How?” she asks, in a small voice.

Asra swallows, hard.

 _I don’t know_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

She hadn’t taught him this. He’d trained himself to listen and to block out the excess sounds. She hadn’t even known he’d developed his hearing to her comparable level. It’s one of the many reasons he didn’t like crowds all that much. Too many sounds, too much sensory input… it can quickly become too much.

“Imagine you’re a stone,” he finally says. “And the sounds are the river current. They’ll pass around you, but they can’t sweep you away. Not unless you let them.”

It had worked for him, back when he had been teaching himself this, but Ziah only looks confused. Asra swallows and shifts, leaning sideways to gently rest the tithonias on the ground. “Ziah? Ziah, if you can hear me, I’d like to touch you—just your head. Nod if that’s okay.”

Ziah nods. He leans forward, doing his best to hide how his hands shake, and gently presses his palms over her own. He holds her wrists and tugs them down, and she starts to shake her head, gone silent and trembling. The skin under her eyes are wet, and he wishes—he wishes they had never left the house.

This was all his fault. He should’ve been more attentive. He shouldn’t have tried to expose her to so much, at least not so quickly, not so soon after the fire.

If Tiamat was here—

 _She’s not here_ , he thinks, fiercely, cutting that particular longing thought off at the knees. _She’s gone. You’re all Ziah has left._

He covers her ears and leans forward, until their foreheads touch. “Listen to your breath,” he says, inhaling slowly. Her breath stutters, hitching on a sob, but she follows his lead, inhaling deeply. “Good. Exhale with me.”

As her breathing deepens, he does his best to quiet her world. He buries the heartbeats until they are dull thumps, makes the voices sound garbled and quiet, as if they’re listening while underwater. He silences the footsteps, the birds’ chatter, and the shrieks of children.

He makes the world quiet, for her, until all she can hear are their matching heartbeats and their breaths. His stomach cramps—he’ll need to eat again soon—but he pushes past the pain and focuses on her. Her hitched, near-hyperventilating breaths slowly calm as she realizes the world’s sounds have been drowned out, and her bloodshot eyes snap open, meeting his own.

Asra relaxes, sitting back. “Better?” he asks. She swallows, and her small, uncertain nod makes his heart ache with a fierce pain that nearly steals his breath. He resists the urge to touch his chest, and forces a small smile, instead. “Okay. Do you want to stay here for a bit, or go straight home?”

“Home,” she whispers, wiping at the wet skin under her eyes with the back of her wrist. Asra’s eyes burn and he hangs his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to regain his calm. He takes a deep breath and, once the threat of unexpected tears has passed, lifts his head to smile at her as reassuringly as he can.

“Okay. Okay, we’ll go home. But first—” He reaches up, pulling the primrose from his hair. He leans forward, tucking the stem into the space above her ear. “There,” he says, softly, enjoying the blush that reddens her cheeks. “You wear it much better.”

She lifts her hand, touching the curve of her ear where his skin had brushed hers. The sight makes him swallow, but he keeps his distance, leaning back to pick up the bouquet of tithonias. He stands and offers his hand to her, and after a moment she takes it, dusting herself off after getting to her feet. She wipes at her eyes once more and nods, avoiding his gaze.

She keeps her gaze on the ground as Asra carefully casts a mind-me-not spell over them both. “Want to hold hands?” he asks. She nods, slowly holding out her right hand, tentative, as if she’s expecting a punishment instead. Asra sighs and takes it, squeezing it tight before offering her a smile. “Okay. Let’s get you home.”

He keeps the world quiet until halfway home, when his energy is so depleted he can’t maintain it any longer. Ziah makes a quiet sound behind him, and he pauses so she can walk beside him, holding his hand loosely in hers. Every so often she sneaks a glance at him, as surreptitiously as she can, and though he never mentions her glances or even acknowledges them, she immediately looks down and hunches her shoulders afterward, like she’s trying to avoid his attention. Like she’s scared of what will happen if he does notice her.

He doesn’t know how to tell her she doesn’t need to fear him.

It hurts that he might have to.

Since losing her memories, since losing _herself_ , she has been shy and skittish, nervous and frightened, so many things she is not—or should not be. She’s been like this since the fire, scared and quiet and always waiting for some kind of punishment, or scolding, or pain.

He thinks of the scars on her back and clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache.

His stomach rumbles, distracting him from the turn his thoughts have taken, reminding him that he needs to eat before his body turns upon itself in an effort to restore his magical reserves. Five minutes later, they reach the shop, and Ziah pulls her hand from his. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, closing it behind them both.

“Are you hungry?” he asks her. She shakes her head, watching him as he unwraps the embattled tithonias and puts them in the amphora on the display case. “Okay. Well, I’m going to make something, so if you change your mind, just let me know.”

She follows him upstairs in silence and takes her seat at the dining table. Asra finds he doesn’t have the energy to actually make something, so he ends up tearing off half the pumpkin bread and sitting across from her. She’s picking at her fingernails, chewing on her lip, her head tilted down toward the floor. Her hair falls forward, concealing her face, but he can almost feel her anxiety as if it’s his own, like a ghost pain in his chest.

“Ziah,” he finally says, once his stomach isn’t so empty it hurts. She doesn’t look up until he reaches out, touching her arm. She jerks at the contact, lifting her head and meeting his gaze. Asra swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says.

She shakes her head. “My fault,” she murmurs, lowering her eyes to her bitten nails. She lifts her hand and catches herself, blinking rapidly as she fists her hands and puts them back in her lap.

“Will you look at me? Please,” he says, softly.

She blinks twice and does, lifting her hand to straighten the primrose, which is on the verge of falling out of her hair. He smiles, leaning forward, resting his hands on the table. Before, he would have asked for her hands, so he could hold them, feel her warmth and her pulse for himself. Now, he fights that urge back. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “I didn’t think about how loud the marketplace would be. I shouldn’t have exposed you to so much so soon. I’m sorry you went through that.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Would you like to… try again, soon? We can go to the forest, or the beach, and practice filtering. We can work on it together. If you want.”

Ziah says nothing, but after several long moments punctuated by Asra’s chewing, she finally gives a small nod. Asra smiles at her. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.” He leans forward, holding her gaze. “Please don’t blame yourself for what happened today, Ziah.”

She lowers her gaze, turning her face away. He sighs and sits up, finishing his half of the pumpkin bread before realizing he’s still hungry. He ends up eating the rest of the loaf, and only once his stomach is full does he realize how exhausted he is. If he was at the palace, he’d be in the middle of his afternoon nap. Using so much magic in so little time hadn’t helped either.

He stretches his arms above his head, groaning as his back cracks. He lowers his hands with a sigh, then smiles. “If you need me, I’ll be upstairs taking a nap. Feel free to wake me up if you need something.”

Ziah doesn’t react. He waits a while, then sighs again and turns toward the stairs.

When he is halfway up the stairs, she says, quietly: “Sweet.”

He stops dead in his tracks, heart beginning to race. “What—what was that?” he asks, turning back to her. Ziah swallows hard and looks at him, looking lost.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

His throat closes up. He descends the stairs and closes the distance between them, lifting his hands on instinct before he catches himself. “Can I touch you?” he asks, waiting for her to nod before leaning forward, holding her face between his hands as he kisses the crown of her head.

She smells of the spices of the market, and jasmine incense. He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, trying to smell her favorite peppermint or rosemary. He can’t, and after a moment he decides that’s not a bad thing—just something new to love about her. “It’s not your fault,” he whispers against her hair. He lets himself be selfish: he strokes her temples, and kisses the top of her head. “It’s not your fault, Mizi. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

She doesn’t answer.

When he finally pulls away, after several long moments of quiet embracing, she does not react. When he walks to the stairs, then goes up to the attic, she does not call him back.

Somehow, her silence hurts worse than when she had called him  _sweet_.


	12. noble maiden fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: asra/mc  
> warnings: descriptions of plague which may be gory idk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone on twitter made "warnings: lucio (with a gun)" from coliseum ii a meme, i'm blessed. @ilyushkas, if you're still reading this story, u made my week, thank u.

The humming is a low, haunting melody. At the sound of it, shivers run from her scalp to her toes, a cold sensation that makes gooseflesh ripple down her arms and raises the hair on the nape of her neck. She is dressed in white linens, arms bandaged from wrist to elbow, hair brushing the tops of her shoulders. Her feet are bloody and bare, but she takes one look at it and knows it is not her own blood.

It is storming outside, thunderous and terrifying. The bunk beds that surround her—sculpted out of thin, twisted metal frames—are all empty; the mattresses have no sheets, and bear nothing but bloodstains. Lightning cracks, thunder rumbling a heartbeat after it, and in the aftermath of the bright light she can make out bars on the single window in the room.

The humming grows louder, louder, until it is not a hum but a song, lyrics sung slowly, eerily. And once she hears the words, she realizes: this song is one she knows, as intimately as one knows their own heartbeat; it is a song she has heard before, over and over and over. A chill sweeps through her.

_There once was a fair-eyed maiden, who loved the northern seas._

The voice is disembodied, coming through the walls, and as she walks she becomes aware of something brushing against her hip. She reaches down and, glancing down, realizes she is gripping a fistful of braided blue hair. A moment later she lets it go, shaken—she has never had hair that long, and yet, and _yet—_

Another lightning strike paints the entire room blinding white. Shadowed against the light, she sees the dormitory’s iron door, crumpled in the middle and resting against the stone wall. It had been ripped off its hinges. The hallway beyond is dark and yawning.

The singer continues. _But this love was not to last; from the south came enemies cruel and wild! They took, they took, they took her from the sea; our maiden lost and ’lone._

She takes a step forward, and above her, water drips onto her forehead. She looks up to see water dripping through cracks in the stone. She touches her forehead, brings her fingertip to her mouth, grimaces at the salt on her tongue.

Seawater. Why was seawater leaking from the ceiling...?

_But the sea did miss its fair-eyed maiden, and sent salvation south. Naṣāru did go, to save the maiden fair._

_Naṣāru._ She knows that word. Somehow, she knows she knows that word. But when she reaches for it, the memory runs from her, as frustrating as every time she has tried to remember her past, remember _herself_ , and failed. She swallows and moves away from the leaking ceiling, toward the yawning darkness that beckons her.

_What else to do, save hope she still had breath?_

The world is silent except for the howling storm outside, and the familiar, strange song. Her stomach twists in unease, and she fights bile rising at the back of her throat as she slowly walks down the hall, passing a dozen other iron doors just like the one crumpled against the dormitory wall. All of them have a single window near the top of the door, barred and shut with a sliding panel.

_Yet when she found her sweet quarry, the maid was naught but scars and stone._

She opens one panel, and inside is a dozen different bodies, all of them wrapped in the same white linens she is wearing. Their linens, however, are stained with gore: pus and blood and other signs of decay. One of the woman rests on her back, head slumped back, expression still. Her empty eyes, stained red, stare right at her.

She stumbles back, pressing a hand to her mouth, struggling to overcome the wave of nausea that brings her to her knees. Thunder booms again, shaking the stone walls, and dust sprinkles down over her. She stumbles to her feet and runs down the hallway.

_She was lost, and knew not how to run: her shackles held her tight._

At the end of the hall is another open room, its barricading iron door torn off its hinges, lying before the frame as if something had kicked it open. Red light illuminates it from within, though she cannot see a light source. She stops before the frame, and something _tugs_ at her, as implacable and irresistible as any enchantment she sells.

She goes in.

This room is not a dormitory, but a prison cell: broken chains litter the walls, and the floor is coated with ash, layers upon layers of it, thick enough to stain the bottoms of her bare feet. She takes another step inside, casting her gaze over the room, but there are no torches, no light source.

Before her, the ash is blown away by a wind without a source, revealing a broken ring of golden keys. Beside the broken keyring is a black card laid face-down. It is not a card that belongs to Asra’s deck, but she recognizes it, somehow. It calls to her in the same language as Asra’s tarot, which she struggles even now to understand.

_So she did turn, not to the sea but me!_

She kneels, hands shaking, and picks up the card. The whispers sharpen around her, congealing in the shadows, but she cannot make out a word; they are spoken in a language she doesn’t know, doesn’t remember.

The card is black, featureless, the edges framed in embroidered gold thread. Slowly, she turns it over to see which Arcana she holds.

The card is empty: where there should be a figure to represent the Arcana, there is empty space. But within the rectangular frame of golden thread are golden shackles. They are broken and scattered throughout the card, exactly as the shackles are broken and scattered throughout the cell she stands in.

“The Devil” is written in gold ink across the bottom of the card.

_‘O,’ she sang, ‘thou Devil wrongly held: unbind me from these chains, and I will set you free.’_

She does not know this card but it is not meant to be empty, _it was never supposed to be empty, if he is free he will hunt me_ —

She scrambles back just as the ceiling caves in, stone groaning as it is forced to give way beneath the storm. She gets to her feet and runs back the way she’d come, only to get swept away by a rogue sea wave. She catches herself by gripping the bars of an iron door, barred from the outside.

There are no plague victims inside this room—only a mountain of ash, which the wind blows into her face. She coughs, rubbing at irritated eyes, and watches a towering wave of seawater crash into the building from the hole in the ceiling of the room she’d run from. Lightning cracks across the sky, painting the inside of the prison-hospital purple for the barest hint of an instant.

The seawater submerges her. She takes a breath and lets herself go under, eyes stinging with salt. Somehow, inexplicably, she can still hear the singing. The tune is still melancholy, still slow and terrible, but the singer sounds… gleeful. She clasps her hands over her ears, but that only makes the song louder.

_Her shackles sprung, her liberty at last was won: to me, she sang, ‘thou Devil rightly held – I’ll never see you free!’_

More stone tumbles into the sea, and the resulting wave sends her spiraling through the water. She hits a door ripped open by the force of the storm outside and catches itself before the riptide can pull her further, using it to claw her way upward.

She breaks the surface, gasping, only to see a monstrous creature—a blue-scaled serpent thrice the size of the largest warship rising from the ocean. It is screaming, the sound terrible, gut-wrenching in its grief. A tidal wave, a tsunami on the verge of crashing upon the shore, towers behind it. Lightning cracks in the water behind the serpent, and the thunder that follows it is deafening.

_O woe, o woe, o woe was all the world to me – ’twas I who freed the maid, and naught for it to show._

She looks over her shoulder. Vesuvia stands behind her, darkened by the overhanging clouds of ash and storm. The palace, towering above the rest of the city, emanates a terrible, plague-red aura. Behind her, the serpent screams, and the tsunami draws closer. She is pulled back under the water before she can take a breath. But the next instant, something cold grabs her wrist, and she is pulled up through the waves.

_She fled, she fled, she fled the world from me – through desert sands and glacial snow._

Ziah sputters, coughing, and looks up into the face of a grinning skeleton. He is draped in black, and a golden, black-eyed cobra is wound around his neck. It lifts its head, hood rising, and opens its mouth to reveal fangs that drip red poison—the exact same red she had seen coating the outer walls of Vesuvia’s palace.

Despite the ocean raging around them, the skeleton smells of the desert, of rot and rust and death.

The skeleton’s jaw does not move, but the voice—the voice that she knows, somehow, belongs to this thing—keeps singing, its melody slowing, drawing to a close.

_Still I had sworn ne’er to sleep, not ’til her treason paid: I hunted her, the maid who loved the sea…_

Thunder rumbles, and lightning paints the world white for the barest instant. The tsunami rushes forward, only growing in size, bearing down upon Vesuvia. She watches it approach, cold dread sinking into her very bones. She wants to scream, but she knows the sea serpent will not hear her over its own agony. Instead, panicked, she looks back at the skeleton that holds her in a dangling grasp.

The Devil grins down at her. “She can never hide from me,” it hisses.

— — —

Ziah awakens in a cold sweat. Already, the details of the nightmare are nebulous—distant and half-remembered, nothing but a chill at the back of her mind. She hunches over in her empty bed, pressing her face into her hands. Imprinted on the backs of her lids is the image of the golden hissing cobra with ruby-red eyes and ruby-red fangs, and the song, though she cannot remember its lyrics.

She presses her hand to the cool side of the bed where Asra would normally sleep beside her. But he is gone, has been gone for the past three weeks, on some quest or other to scale the Blood Mountain or visit Prakra’s court magician, she doesn’t remember. He hadn’t explained much other than that he was hopeful that this trip would get him what he needed.

When she’d asked what exactly it _was_ that he needed, he hadn’t quite answered her. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye as he gave some noncommittal response, the same vague, generic reassurance he always used.

She slowly kicks off the duvet and swings her legs over, feeling the sweat cooling on her brow and the exposed nape of her neck. Her hair had been so much longer in her dream, and now its absence makes her feel weightless, unmoored, dizzy. The world is still dark, the day gone past midnight but not quite predawn. It is either very early, or very late.

On unsteady legs she rises and goes downstairs, intent on making herself tea. She gets the yellow enamel kettle, painted at the bottom with white flowers, from one of the cupboards, just as Asra had shown her before he’d left. But as she stares at the kettle, she recalls that she has no idea how to make tea.

Asra had shown her before he’d left. She’d _made_ him show her before he’d left, two or three times. Then she had made tea on her own, under his watchful, encouraging eye. But now that he is gone, and she is alone and staring at the kettle, she realizes: she doesn’t know how to make tea anymore. She’s forgotten that simple skill, just like she’s forgotten whoever she had once been.

Frustration wells up inside her. She has the terrible, odd urge to throw the kettle across the room, to shatter a beautiful thing for the sake of witnessing its destruction. She imagines the sound of the kettle shattering, seeing pieces of scattered yellow-and-white enamel scattered over wooden floors and Prakran rug, sheened blue in the moonlight.

Her left hand hurts. Asra had left her plenty of cream for her arthritis—had shown her how to make it—but she’s forgotten that, too. It makes her think of the days when Asra had had to re-teach her how to walk, when she had forgotten words or phrases or how language worked all together, and shame burns in her, heating her cheeks.

Quietly, she puts the kettle away. Quietly, she returns upstairs, and finds a basket under the hammock, which is creaking and full with clean but unfolded laundry. In the basket is a dusty instrument—a wooden box with metal tines, a hole in the middle. Asra had played it for her, once, but she prefers the jazz from their phonograph. But they only have one vinyl, and she has listened to all of the songs on it so many times she knows each melody by heart.

She grabs the instrument— _kalimba_ , she abruptly thinks, and inexplicable tears bead her eyes at the memory, at the reassurance that her mind is not completely broken or useless—and a stick of jasmine incense from the collection atop their dresser. In one of the drawers, she finds an extra jar of Asra’s arthritis cream. Then she goes downstairs, sparing a glance for the empty defunct fountain at the front of the store, and goes out the backroom into the garden. It had once been a dirt alley behind the house, or so Asra had told her.

She doesn’t know how the garden had become what it is now: a makeshift yard, complete with shoulder-high stone wall and wooden gate, bushes of lavender and roses and herbs. At some point, years ago, someone had set up a pergola, which is now wreathed in ivy and other creeping vines. She does not remember that, either.

She sits on the couch beneath the pergola, charmed to repel any rainwater or fungus growth or other natural decay, and keeps the kalimba and jar of ointment in her lap. She leans aside, toward the end table next to the sofa, where an incense holder shaped like a wide, round elephant’s head rests. She places the incense in the trunk of the wide-eyed orange elephant—Asra had named it Ellie, she believes—and lights it.

Jasmine has always calmed her.

It is a clear night, a beautiful night. Though the nightmare is faded now, its details milky and out of her memory’s reach, it still bothers her. She begins to rub the arthritic ointment into her left hand, slowly humming to herself.

The pain in her left hand has eased somewhat by the time she takes the kalimba in hand, slowly plucking—is that the word?—its tines, listening to the echoing, chime-like sound it emits. The more she plays, the more it calms her racing heart: she concentrates and plays the kalimba in fits and starts, trying to see if she can replicate some of the simpler jazz melodies she has heard on the phonograph.

Her playing stops when she hears footsteps in the back alley, their sounds dulls on the unpaved dirt path. She lifts her head as the garden’s gate lock jiggles a bit and Asra, quietly humming a sea shanty, opens it and steps through. He shuts the gate behind him, and with a whisper the lock flares in the darkness, his magic lighting it up as he locks it again.

Ziah does not move. Her breath is caught in her throat.

Asra turns around, and though she can hardly see his expression—concealed both by his hat and scarf, and by the distance between them—he does not start when he sees her. Instead he approaches, tugging his scarf down from his mouth and tilting the brim of his hat back so she can see his face.

“Ziah?” he asks, brows drawing together at the sight of her. “What are you doing up so late?”

Ziah swallows and looks down. “It is nothing,” she says.

Asra hesitates only a moment. “Can I sit with you?”

He waits for her to nod, and then sits on the couch beside her, gently moving the ointment to hold it loosely between his hands, resting in his lap. “Was your hand bothering you?” he murmurs, worry in his eyes. “It’s been a while since it’s been so bad it woke you up.”

Ziah shakes her head, looking at him. He takes the hat off, hair silver in the moonlight, and she sees Faust snuggled in the folds of his scarf, eyes closed and slitted nostrils flaring as she sleeps. Ziah half-smiles despite herself. “It wasn’t that,” she admits, quietly. “I had a bad dream. The garden calms me.”

He nods. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. He still looks worried. “The dream, I mean.”

“I don’t remember much,” she admits. “There was… a skeleton, singing a song. And a storm.”

“A skeleton,” Asra says, expression clearing—is that understanding in his eyes?—before he looks away, hiding his face from her. “Hm. Well, skeletons are never good. Even if it _was_ singing. Still sounds like a pretty bad dream to me.” He waits a moment, looks back to her, offers a small smile. “Want me to make some tea?”

“Could you show me?” she asks. “I’m sorry. I… I forgot how.”

She pushes back the feelings of guilt, of uselessness at the admission. How many times has he had to show her the same simple task, over and over? How many times had she fought tears because she hadn’t been able to recall the most basic details necessary for a functional life?

“Of course I’ll show you,” Asra says. His smile chases away the dark cloud that had taken over her thoughts. He stands up, offers her his hand for a split second before he swallows and drops it to his side. “Come on—did you want lavender tea? Actually, chamomile might help you sleep and help your hand. Two birds with one stone and all that. Hmm…”

She follows him upstairs to the kitchen, where he turns on the gas lamps and hangs his hat on the staircase newel. “Could you put Faust to bed?” he asks, unwinding the scarf from his neck. Faust, her rest disturbed, opens red eyes that somehow look bleary. “She’s exhausted.”

Ziah nods, taking Faust from him, the size of her filling both her arms. Faust slowly rubs her head under Ziah’s chin as she takes her upstairs, gently finding her pillow in the corner and lowering her onto it. They’d gotten her a new one before Asra had left on this journey, to accommodate her growing size. Her tongue bleps out as she settles on her pillow, eyes closing at once. Ziah leaves her to her rest.

She returns to Asra filling the yellow tea kettle with water. Beside him is a teapot she’d completely forgotten about—originally white porcelain, she and Asra had painted it to resemble a unicorn he’d apparently seen in the thick wooded wilds across the Hjallen Bay after she’d scoffed that no such creature existed. The spout was its golden horn, and the handle and lid were the pale pink of its mane and tail. The large black eyes had been her own addition.

That had been a good day. She remembers how hard Asra had laughed, how he had almost smeared her with pink paint before he’d abruptly cleared his throat and refocused on the kettle. How he had told her stories of powerful magicians in glaciers and sand-buried palaces, and ancient serpent races that had once ruled the sea and land and air. He’d gotten her pumpkin bread, too, and a drink he called sharbat that she’d adored.

“Remember,” Asra says, without even turning around, “the kettle is what you heat the water with. If you use the teapot, you risk damaging it. Stove salamander, could you—?”

A squeak from inside, and a moment later, the wood Ziah had stocked that morning flickers behind the grill, glowing orange. Asra bends down, smiles, and calls out cheerful thanks to the stove salamander as he straightens and places the tea kettle atop the stove. He looks at her over his shoulder, features soft in the warm gas lamp light, and his grin widens.

“While we’re waiting,” he says, “I have a gift for you.”

He puts his messenger bag—charmed, he’d told her, to hold an endless amount of items—on the table. He sneaks a look at her, smile widening until his dimples show, and pulls out three thin cases with elaborate artwork on all of them. “Best vinyl shop out east,” he tells her, laying all three flat on the table. Ziah’s breath catches, and as she looks down at them her smile widens until she is grinning.

She laughs, and Asra’s eyes crinkle in the corners, becoming purple slits of delight. “You like them?” he asks. “I gave them a listen in the shop, they were pretty good, and the art is beautiful too—”

She rounds the table and hugs him. His exhale is hard and abrupt, caught off guard, but he wastes no time wrapping his arms tightly around her, resting his chin on her shoulder and sighing. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to savor, selfishly, his closeness. She never feels safer than when she is in his arms, but he has given no indication that he sees her as anything more than his apprentice.

When she pulls away, he lets her go easily. His smile hasn’t changed at all, loose and friendly and, she thinks, perhaps a little distant. It makes her swallow and keep her hands at her sides.

“Thank you,” she says. “They’re perfect.”

She gathers them up before he can reply, taking them over to the phonograph, carefully kneeling down to the open shelf underneath it, where her other record rests. She puts the vinyls next to it, forming a collection of four discs, and straightens, running her fingers over the broad verdant leaf of the plant next to the phonograph.

“Chamomile or lavender?” Asra asks, lifting the pink lid of the unicorn teapot.

“Lavender, please,” she says, joining his side. She watches as he counts out the lavender sprigs, crumbling them and depositing them inside the teapot. As he does that, he tells her about tea-making—how long it should steep, how much honey she should put in it to sweeten it, how long she needs to wait before the tea is cool enough to drink.

Then he pours the hot water from the steaming kettle into the unicorn teapot, and soon they are sitting at their rickety kitchen table, two cups of strained lavender tea between them. She sweetens hers with honey from the market. Asra watches her, takes a breath, exhales, and smiles. “Balance,” he reminds her, lifting his teacup toward her. She lifts it in turn, and together they take the first sip of their tea.

When she sets her cup down, it’s to find Asra watching her, hands folded around his teacup. “I am sorry about your dream,” he says, brows quirking in what has become a familiar expression of worry. Ziah lowers her gaze to her teacup.

“It isn’t your fault,” she says.

“I know, but…” he sighs, then smiles at her. “The sky was so beautiful and clear on my way back here. If you still have trouble sleeping tonight, we can go out stargazing. I know just the place that would be perfect for it.”

Ziah looks down at her pajamas, which consist of mid-thigh shorts and a loose tank. She looks back up at him, and his smirk widens. “No one’s out this late, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he assures her. She rolls her eyes at him and he laughs at her, grinning over the rim of his teacup. “So. You interested?”

Ziah drains her tea, tasting lavender and honey on her lips, and stands. “I’ll get my cloak,” she says, and it is worth it, seeing the way his expression brightens at her agreement. His smile widens, dimples flashing, and she goes downstairs to retrieve her sandals and traveling cloak. Upstairs, she hears Asra cleaning up, no doubt leaving the dishes near the sink to deal with tomorrow.

It is just as well—she had bought a fresh batch of eucalyptus leaves today at the market, and the house was in desperate need of reorganization. She’s almost out of rose and orange blossom soaps, and their cough syrup has needed to be reorganized for days. She could get started on all of that tomorrow, perhaps before she opens the shop—

“Ziah? You still with me?”

Ziah blinks to see Asra approaching her, scarf wound once again over his shoulders, over his traveling coat. He isn’t wearing his hat or carrying his messenger bag—it is just him, and just her. He smiles at her, opening the door, gesturing to the dark street outside. “After you,” he says, following her out onto the cobblestone path. He locks the door behind her, sigils of the cross-me-not spell flaring within the wood and walls before fading from view.

“Where are you taking me, exactly?” she asks, voice teasing. Asra looks at her, eyes lidding, mouth curling into a playful smirk.

“Actually,” he says, “I think I’ll keep it a surprise.”

“Oh?”

“Mm _hmm_. Close your eyes.”

She rolls her eyes, but obeys. Immediately Asra’s hands are on her face, covering her eyes. She tries not to think about how warm his hands are.

“ _Asra_.”

“Don’t want you peeking,” he says behind her, and she can hear the grin in his voice. She laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you trip or wander into the canals. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Under his guidance, they roam the city, and she does not know where they are going—she only follows his directions, a soft _left here_ or _okay, five steps up, careful—they’re shallow._ She listens to the rush of the canals around them, feels the rhythm of Vesuvia’s underground rivers, hears a dull, repetitive noise that almost sounds like waves crashing upon the shore, though they’re nowhere near the ocean.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity walking, Asra’s hands pull away. She keeps her eyes closed until he whispers, “All right. You can look.”

She opens her eyes and her mouth drops open.

They aren’t in Vesuvia anymore—they’re on a hill just outside of it, tall enough that she can see the palace and the lower parts of the city, though that section is dark, still ruined from a storm that had flooded and destroyed it almost a year ago. Above them, the sky is a blanket of stars, a thousand thousand diamonds glittering upon an indigo tapestry. She can see a few constellations she’d seen in one of Asra’s books—the dancing woman, the last dragon, the ship from the Aransi myth.

It is a cool night; she draws the cloak tighter around herself, fighting a shiver. Asra sits down in the grass beside her and she joins him, making sure to keep a distance between them both. She lays back in the grass, gazing up at the stars.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Asra, this is—wow. It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? The night isn’t often clear like this, I thought you’d like it.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that he is smiling, hands folded behind his head. He lifts one hand, pointing out the constellation. “You see those wolves? Chasing Yulsaria? That constellation’s only visible for this month, then it’s gone the rest of the year.”

She squints, following where he is pointing. After a moment, she can see it—a pack of three wolves, chasing a fleeing woman, on and on in perpetuity. The longer she stares, the more familiar the constellation becomes. Once she is confident she can recognize it again, she looks to Asra. “What is that story, again? Yulsaria and the wolves?”

“Yulsaria was the ice witch who ruled the Blueheart Glacier, five thousand years ago. She wanted to end the world in ice and rule over its ruins, but Ry—” he catches himself, looks at her, clears his throat. “Yulsaria’s apprentice stopped that. She rallied the desert wyvern Slyrak and her fire mage sister and their allies, and together they took on Yulsaria’s army of snowy wyverns and ice golems and other winter creatures. Yulsaria was defeated, her apprentice took her place as the Blueheart Glacier’s warden, and the wolves in the sky are responsible for chasing her forever, ensuring Yulsaria can never return to freeze the world over.”

“Five thousand years ago,” Ziah muses. “Is any of it true?”

“Oh, I think all the best stories have some truth to them.” He smiles. “How else could they be real, you know?” He rolls onto his side, resting his cheek in the crook of his elbow. His eyes are deep purple in the low light. “Maybe it’s all true.”

Ziah also rolls onto her side, propping her head in her hand. “Or maybe it is all legend, made up to explain interesting shapes in the stars.”

“That’s also probably true.” Asra’s grin is wide and shameless. “Which do you like better?”

“Yours,” she whispers. His smile fades, just slightly; he stares at her intently, unmoving and silent, until she grows uncomfortable under his scrutiny and looks back toward the stars. Asra clears his throat and shifts onto his back.

“So that one,” he says, pointing toward the constellation shaped like a crab, “in Aransa, that constellation was a giant sea monster that threatened the entire coast…”

She listens to him tell stories of the constellations. All of them are written about extensively in the book she’d read, and though she’d read those stories, Asra speaks with such infectious enthusiasm she cannot help as if he makes them new—as if he makes everything new. She listens to him speak, asking the appropriate questions, and it is under the influence of the lavender tea and the soothing sound of his voice that she is at last lulled to dreamless sleep.

— — —

She wakes to Asra’s warmth pressed against her back, his arm slung around her torso, hand resting over her elbow. His head is on one of their many pillows, but his breath is warm on the back of her neck, making her skin prickle as a shiver runs down her body. Her left hand is stiff from the cool morning air; she flexes it, sighing.

Without a word, Asra’s hand smoothes down her right arm and reaches out, taking her left hand in his. He presses his thumb to her sore knuckles, and a cascade of soothing magic washes over her hand, erasing the ache in moments. Ziah blinks, her thoughts still muddled from sleep as she tries to register what had just happened.

“Better?” Asra asks, voice slurred.

Ziah’s heart is pounding. She hopes he can’t feel it, pressed together as closely as they are. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Mmmgood.” He falls back asleep in moments, hand still clasped in hers, arm still draped across her clavicle. Ziah swallows hard, staring out at the wall. Faust is still curled up on her pillow, sleeping, still recovering from the journey from which she and Asra had so recently returned.

She needs to get up, get started for the day—the shop is supposed to open in a few hours. She has to restock the cough syrup, get started on making more lavender and orange blossom soap. Had she bought enough lavender and orange blossoms from Jain? She thinks back to yesterday morning when she’d done all her shopping, but can’t recall. She’d have to get out of bed to check, which is the last thing she wants.

Asra sighs behind her, body shifting to press closer against her back, and she closes her eyes, enjoying his warmth. She will not get out of bed, not just yet. Instead she stays where she is, nestled in his arms, and lets the anchor of his presence coax her back to sleep.


	13. everglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanted to practice post-amnesia ziah's characterization. special thanks to my friend wardsarefunctioning for providing an actual reading; she essentially rp'd ziah giving asra a reading (2/3 of these cards are the cards she actually pulled for them, by the way). 
> 
> in the meantime, enjoy some pre-game dorks crushin' hard on each other.
> 
> pairings: asra/mc  
> warnings: none

He’s packing heavy clothes this time, she notes, leaning against the wall. All furs and woolens and layers, the stuff they keep under the floorboards because Vesuvia has never been cold enough to justify them. Faust is curled up on her pillow in the sunniest corner of the attic, soaking up as much sun as she can. She’ll need it. Asra hasn’t said much about this newest journey, other than it is to some place called the Blueheart Glacier, all the way at the bottom of the world. And she knows how much Faust hates the cold.

They are all of them beings born of warmth, with summer flush in their veins.

She looks outside the darkened window, where the sky is beginning to pinken with the oncoming dawn. “I’ll be gone a while,” Asra says. “The Blueheart Glacier is a long way away. Some say it’s the very edge of the world, and you can’t go past it without falling off the earth.” He pauses, but Ziah is not looking at him, so she does not see the wry grin that is surely on his face. “Hey. What is it?”

The floorboards creak under his weight and she feels his hands on her arms, gently turning her. She meets his gaze, noting how his eyes are dark purple in the predawn light. He smoothes his hands down her arms, eventually clasping her palms in his. “Ziah? Talk to me.”

 _Don’t go_ , she wants to tell him.  _Don’t leave me alone here._

But she is not a child, begging for scraps of affection and attention, and they have had conversations like this before. His mind never changes. It never will. His is a wandering spirit, and she must content herself with the knowledge that he will always come home to her.

It does not make it any less a bitter medicine to swallow.

She squeezes his hands and pulls away, offering a small, close-mouthed smile. “Let me give you a reading before you leave,” she says. “I need to practice, anyway. I keep pulling pentacles. The cards are  _really_  worried about our shop, by the way.”

Asra laughs, following her down the stairs to the ground floor. “Really?” he teases. “Do they not know about the hoard of money you keep under our bed?”

Ziah glances over her shoulder at him, then plucks a blooming, cardinal-colored tithonia from the brass amphora that rests on the display case. She breaks the stem cleanly in two and turns on her heel, reaching up and tucking the flower behind his ear. His breath hitches, eyes widening for an instant before he gives her a fond look that makes her heart flip painfully in her chest. “It matches your scarf,” she says. His hand lifts, fingering the edge of his red silk scarf wound around his shoulders. He looks startled for an instant, then laughs, dimples flashing.

“It does! Thank you.”

“What will you bring back for me?” she asks, pushing past the beaded partition that separates the back room from the rest of the shop. A stick of unlit frankincense sits in the lotus flower incense holder, and Asra lights it absently, with a small flame from the tip of his thumb. Smoke curls around him in lazy whorls as he settles on a faded velvet stool, smoothing his hand over the tablecloth. When he lifts his hand, the deck is resting on the table, as if it had always been there. Her palms tingle when she draws it toward herself, picking it up and starting to shuffle. She’s worked with his deck a thousand times before, and though she never feels unwelcome, she cannot shake the feeling that she should be using a different deck.

“Whatever you want,” he says, smiling. He leans onto the table, fingers interweaving, as she shuffles and splits the deck, setting it into three piles. When she glances up, he’s watching her, a soft look in his eyes. “You’re getting much better at that.”

She blinks, but he only watches her with a gentle smile. His hand hovers above the space between the three piles before he lowers it, brushing his fingers against the second deck without looking at it. She sets the discarded decks aside and pulls the second deck to the edge of the table, face-down. She smoothly spreads them out in one long drag of her hand, shaping them into a concave arc, the apex of its curve facing him. When the cut deck is set out before him, Asra pulls three cards without looking away from her face, offering them to her face-down with a slight, unreadable smile. Ziah sets the rest of the deck aside and places the three cards in a semi-circle before her.

“First,” she says, “the past. This is who you were, or what your circumstances used to be like.”

“Mhm.” The dawn slants pink-and-gold light over his face, casting half of him in shadow. The tithonia seems to glow from its place above his ear. A flutter sits in the pit of her stomach, and she tries to ignore how beautiful he looks right now, in the pink dawnlight.

She turns over the card: a black-bellied fish, with fins of teal and green and purple, surrounded by seven golden chalices. “Seven of cups,” she says, pausing to listen to the whispers of the tarot. After a long moment, she says, “You have been too focused on what you want, to the point that you have allowed your hopes to become fantasies, even delusions. You’ve let yourself get swept away by wishful thinking and cling to impossibilities. Perhaps it is time to consider re-grounding yourself in reality, and let go of these impossible dreams.”

She looks up. Asra is no longer smiling. A tremor runs through his hands and he sits upright, tucking them under the table, out of her sight. He turns his head to watch the sunrise, clad in the orange and pink streaks of dawn. The flower in his hair turns toward the light as well.

“I see,” he finally says. “Hm, all right. What’s the next card?”

She watches him, though he doesn’t look at her. Carefully, she flips over the next card. An upside-down cloaked bear stares ahead, lifting a lamp to guide him through the dark. “The Hermit, reversed,” she says. When she looks up, Asra’s eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised high and lips parted in surprise. Just as quickly, his eyes narrow, a shadow of annoyance passing over his face.

“Wow,” he mutters. After a moment, he exhales and lays his palms flat, smoothing them over the tablecloth, then looks at her, all evidence of his annoyance gone. “What’s he saying to you?”

Ziah’s mouth is too dry to work. She swallows, licking her lips, and closes her eyes, trying to listen to the card. But the Hermit is silent, ignoring her when she reaches for it. Inexplicably, she hears the drag of chains instead of any actual voice.

“He’s not talking to me,” she finally says, opening her eyes. She cannot keep the dejection from her voice.

“That’s okay. Take your time. He’ll open up eventually.”

She tries again. This time, when she reaches, she gets a sense of resistance from the card before it reaches back, albeit begrudgingly. When her fingertips press against the Hermit’s lantern, nonhuman whispers fill her mind, communicating in impressions and images rather than a human language.

A few moments later, Ziah opens her eyes. Asra is smiling encouragingly at her, though she can see a shadow in his eyes. A tremble runs through her hand as she pulls her fingers from the card. “You have isolated yourself too much,” she tells him. He doesn’t look surprised at her verdict, only resigned. “While you have been pursuing your goals, you have cut yourself off from people who care about you. Don’t underestimate the value of being connected with others.”

Asra swallows, looking out the window toward the sunrise, nearly complete, now. Soon it will be the proper day, and the red-and-pink light that shades him in color will be gone. Soon he will be gone, off for whatever strange and beautiful place has caught his fancy this time. “So I suppose the Hermit is telling you to remain here with me,” she suggests, offering a smile that feels too hollow.

Asra laughs, his dimples flashing, and her heart aches in her chest. “ _Pfhaha_. Is that so?” He gives her an affectionate look, drawn from the shadows to which his mind had taken him. But the next moment he looks back toward the sunrise.

“You want to get going,” she surmises.

“I’m losing time,” he agrees. “But we haven’t finished the reading.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “You can go. Just—bring me—” She stops, unsure what she wants to say.

“What do you want?” Asra asks. “I’ll bring you anything. Really.”

She considers. “What does the Blueheart Glacier have to offer?”

He smiles. “Well, there are snowy wyvern eggs—you’ve needed a third egg for your collection for a while, right? There’s also unmelting snow I can put into a snowglobe for you. And…” he pauses, giving her an unreadable look. “And there are ice crystals that are supposed to preserve memories. They mature every ten thousand years, and can only be harvested for a few days before they shatter. The memories they can store are limitless. If I get one, you’ll be able to see the Blueheart Glacier like you were actually there.”

She watches him, narrowing her eyes. She has not had an episode in months, and with her training to avoid triggers has come distance. She would always be curious about her past, yes, but—it has since stopped becoming all she can think about. There are other things to focus on, other distractions. Other reasons to move on.

But…

“A wyvern egg, or one of the crystals,” she says. His smile is radiant.

“I thought you’d say that.” After a moment, he stands, adjusting the flower in his hair so it will not fall out. “Thanks for the reading, Ziah. You get better every time, really.” He smiles. “I can’t wait to see how you’ll do when I come back.”

He turns on his heel, pausing at the beaded curtain when she calls his name. She rises from the table, crossing the room to stand in front of him.

“If you cannot get one of these crystals,” she tells him, “do not blame yourself. All that you must do is return to me, hale and whole. Understand?”

Asra’s eyes widen, then his expression softens. He smoothes his hands down her arms, resting them above her elbows. “Always,” he says. He looks out toward the rising sun again, then sighs to himself. She wonders if she imagines the reluctance hidden within the sound. “I have to finish packing. And it’s almost time to open up the shop.”

Ziah nods and steps away, and he disappears through the beaded curtain. She listens to his footsteps on the staircase, then on the warped floors above her, and takes a deep breath. She ventures out into the main area of the shop, checking their supplies; they’re almost out of peppermint-vanilla soap, and her satchels for good dreams are all out, as are her contraceptive tonics. She’ll have to make a new batch of both. And she should check the garden.

She opens the drapes that shield the front window, signalling that the shop is open, and returns to the back room, where Asra’s deck is waiting. He’ll need it on the journey. The third card, the future, is still separate from the rest of the deck. With a sigh, Ziah walks over and flips it face-up.

The Lovers stare back at her.

Her breath catches. Quickly, she tucks the card into the deck, winding the red ribbon around them that keeps them all together. She finds Asra in their attic, shrugging on his multicolored vest around his shoulders. Faust is wound around his left arm. He lifts his messenger bag, which looks no different than usual despite him packing several months’ worth of clothes inside, and tucks the strap over his shoulder, then puts his traveling hat on. When he turns, Ziah holds the deck out in silence.

“Oh,” Asra says, blinking. She can just see his eyes under the brim of his hat. “You didn’t want to keep them?”

She shakes her head. “They belong with you,” she says.

Asra stops in front of her and passes his palm over her outstretched hand, and the tarot disappears. He lowers his hand and glances up at her. “I know that look,” he says, with a gentle smile. “What is it?”

She tilts up the brim of his hat, showing his face more fully. The tithonia is still there, tucked behind his ear. She reaches out to straighten it, so it won’t get crushed by his hat. Asra catches her wrist and holds her hand fast against his heart. “Ziah,” he says, quieter.

She forces herself to meet his gaze. “Your future card,” she says, and he stills, watching her carefully, “was the Lovers.”

His eyes go wide, and a flush creeps over his face as his gaze flits to some corner of the room. “Really?” he asks, voice soft. His gaze trails back to her face, soft and thoughtful. He watches her intently for a long moment, lips parted, fingers curling around her wrist.

“So… you will find someone,” she says, forcing a smile. “And you will be happy with them, whoever they are. You simply must needs stop hiding yourself away so often.”

He looks confused, but the windchimes ring downstairs, signalling the first customer of the day. Ziah gently pulls herself from his loose hold. “I bid you safe travels on your journey,” she says. His face falls and she turns away, hurrying down the stairs, ignoring the tightness in her chest and the tingling in her arm where he had touched her.

The customer doesn’t want a reading, thankfully—Asra’s readings are always popular, and she always feels terrible telling customers whenever he’s left on a trip—but buys, instead, some orange blossom-scented soap and several satchels for protection. Her fingers smell of myrrh by the time they leave.

When she goes back upstairs, Asra is gone.

She swallows her disappointment and heads out into the garden. The shelves won’t restock themselves, after all.

—  —  —

Asra has been gone for two months when the Countess awakens from her mysterious sleep. The palace chamberlain announces her awakening in the middle of the central square, the palace a gleaming and beautiful backdrop behind them. “The Countess fares well,” the chamberlain shouts, straining to be heard above the waterfalls behind them, “though she will require some time to recover from her ordeal. In the meantime, I know it would hearten her to see the citizens of her beloved Vesuvia celebrating her recovery!”

Ziah smiles privately to herself, lifting the edges of her violet silk scarf to drape it over her head as she turns away, the other citizens’ cheers echoing in her ears. Vesuvia is a city that never passes on an opportunity for revelry; surely there would be banners hanging from every building within an hour, and a week-long festival fully planned by the end of the night.

She takes a gondola to the floating market, where she buys extra lye and goat’s milk, as well as the materials for additional contraceptive brews. She buys fresh tithonias for the amphora, and netted bags of oranges and a bunch of bananas. Her basket’s beginning to weigh on her arm, but she keeps it tucked close to her side. She crosses an ivy-covered marble bridge, fingers brushing over the leaves, and pauses at the crest of the bridge to listen. She closes her eyes, concentrating on all the sounds of the market: the squawking birds, rattling their cages; the steady hum of conversation both near and distant; the steady thuds of treading feet; and below it all, the thrum of the water below, the rush of the current heading out into the ocean. It pulls at her, strong and insistent, and for a moment she considers dropping everything and following its call.

She opens her eyes, momentarily disoriented.  _Focus on your breath_ , she thinks.  _Focus on nothing but your breath._

That particular lesson had been to alleviate her headaches and sometimes her chest pain, whenever she had tried to force lost memories back to the surface, but it is good for moments like these, too, when the world feels overwhelming. Eventually, the crash of the ocean waves fade from her consciousness, and gradually the details of various conversations around her return. Some of the market attendees are discussing their daily goings-on; many more are gossiping about the Countess’s awakening, and what it could mean for Consul Valerius.

She takes a deep breath, smelling the canals and the market food and spices, now, rather than the ocean. She trails her hand over the ivy that is wound around the bridge railing and turns, crossing the canal onto the next block of earth that makes up the floating market. As she walks past various stalls, all selling a variety of goods, she sees a skink merchant and hesitates, eyeing the wares just long enough that the merchant sees her and smells blood in the water. He pounces, beckoning her over, and she walks up to his stall. He spreads his hands, showcasing his various skinks, all spread out on a green linen display—he has so many skink species. Green tailed, golden-eyed, red-eared, among others.

“They’re freshly caught from the desert,” the skink merchant tells her, a gleam in his eye. “Delicious with some basil and black pepper.”

“Do you have any blue-tongues?” she asks. She doesn’t know why she’s asking. Asra isn’t home yet. He probably won’t be for a while. But there’s a strange energy in the air, not just from Countess Nadia’s awakening, and in the back of her mind she allows herself a kernel of hope.

The merchant gestures to a pile of eight skinks at her left, each the length and width of her forearm. “Fifteen goldens for two, eight goldens for each,” he tells her. She fishes out the money and, after wrapping two skinks in wax paper, carefully places them in her basket, then goes on her way. She ends up buying more eucalyptus leaves, for the new moon is in two nights’ time, and a bag of lavender blooms.

By the time she finishes her shopping, the sun is high in the sky, and despite the shade of her scarf her hair sticks to the back of her neck, plastered with sweat. She takes a gondola to the lower side of town, just on the edge of the slums. She tips the gondolier as she steps out of the boat, and starts walking toward her shop, the smell of the sea and the docks in the air.

When she reaches her shop, she stills, narrowing her eyes. The energy is different—she reaches out with her aura, and her breath catches when she realizes the cross-me-not spell has been deactivated. Asra’s magic lingers in the air. The curtains of the shop’s window are also open, when she had left them shut this morning. Unbidden, a smile spreads across her face. She adjusts her scarf, straightens her shirt, and smoothes down her pants, brushing off invisible lint, then letting herself inside.

The room smells like jasmine. It grounds her and she inhales deeply, allowing the calming scent to wash over her. The windchimes ring above her, their gentle sound filling the house. She closes the door behind her, listening to the windchimes and the sound of Asra’s footsteps above her. Soon, the stairs groan under his weight, and he leans down, fluffy head appearing over the stairwell railing.

“Ziah!” he calls, a dimpled smile spreading wide over his face. Warmth suffuses her, pooling in her chest, and she cannot help but smile back.

“Welcome back.”

His smile widens and he turns, quickly descending the stairs. Once on the ground level, he approaches her, his smile faint, now, but no less fond. “Here, let me take that from you,” he says, gently pulling the basket from her arms. “I like the scarf. Is it new?”

“Mhm. I bought it a few weeks ago.”

He reaches out, running his fingers over the material, just over her temple. She feels his thumb brush against her skin, but it only lasts a moment, passing so quickly she wonders if had just been her imagination, a product of her own wishful longing. Asra pulls away. “Silk, huh?” he murmurs, lips curving into a tender smile. “Fancy. You look great.” She swallows, and he glances down at the basket in his hand. “What did the market have to offer today?”

“Take a look,” she says, falling into step with him as he turns back to the stairs. She pulls back the blanket, revealing the wax paper. “How would you liked some blue-tongued skinks for dinner?”

Asra laughs, eyebrows climbing high, and looks at her, delighted. “You didn’t…” he starts, trailing off. Somehow, she knows his unspoken question.

“Know you were back? No. I just had a feeling.”

He stops in his tracks, smiling up at her. “Incredible,” he says. “That’s incredible, Mizi.”

Her eyebrows rise at the odd name—he’s never called her that before, to her knowledge—and he catches himself almost immediately, eyes widening. He looks away, cheeks flushing, and starts up the stairs. “So… I have a nickname now?” she asks, amused. Asra sets the shopping basket on their dining table and she joins his side, helping him unpack it. He holds out her bottle of lye and she takes it, setting it on one of their dining chairs.

“It slipped out,” he admits. “Sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” she tells him. “I like it.”

He exhales, visibly relaxing, and carefully takes the skinks out of the basket, kneeling down to place them in the charmed icebox. “So how was the Blueheart Glacier? What was it like, being at the edge of the world?” she asks, as casually as she can.

“It was amazing,” he says. “Everything was blue, a shade between the sea and the sky. You had to leave the continent to get there; I crossed the sea for a day, and then, just like that, a wall of ice stretching as far as you can see. The sky was full of auroras, even during the day. There are polar bears, and wolves, and snowy wyverns—and it was _freezing_. No matter how many layers I wore or how many charms I cast, I was always cold. Poor Faust was miserable.”

Ziah looks behind her, where Faust is coiled up on a countertop, soaking in the heat of the sun. She lifts her head at her name and bobs vigorously, tongue flicking. Asra laughs. “Don’t say that,” he chides. “I didn’t know my charms wouldn’t work. Next time I’ll leave you here and Ziah can keep you warm instead. She’s a better cuddler, too, I’m sure.”

Faust bobs her head, and Ziah smiles, stretching out her palm. Faust slithers onto her wrist immediately, making her way up to Ziah’s shoulders. “She has good judgement,” Ziah murmurs, lifting her gaze to Asra’s and allowing a playful, teasing smile. “I  _am_ the better cuddler.”

Asra laughs, accepting the ribbing with a smile before his eyes widen. “Oh, I almost forgot—I have a gift for you.” He turns to fetch his messenger bag from the couch. He stands over it for several minutes, rummaging around. Finally, he mutters  _aha_ and shoots her a mischievous smile over his shoulder. “Okay, close your eyes. Hold out your hands.”

She hums, obeying, listening to the wooden floors creak under his weight. After a moment, something soft—and cold—is deposited in her cupped hands. “The crystals didn’t work out,” he says, his hands cupping hers, thumbs smoothing over the backs of her knuckles. “They’d already shattered by the time I got there. But I hope this makes up for it.”

She opens her eyes and inhales. In her hands is a scaled egg, white with whorls of silver and freckles of black and wintry blue. It’s cushioned by a pelt of white fur, but she can feel the cold emanating from it. When she searches for energy within, she senses nothing—it is just like holding a rock. “Don’t let your bare hands touch it,” Asra warns, “or it’ll freeze them off.”

She nods, wrapping the fur around it and holding it close to her chest. She looks up and sees Asra watching her, a shadow of disappointment lingering in his eyes despite the hopeful expression on his face. She takes a breath and lifts one hand, cupping his face in her palm. His eyes go wide, lips parting, and she smiles at him.

“Don’t worry about the crystals,” she says. “You came back. That is all I really wanted.”

The shadows in his eyes fade, but do not quite disappear. He smiles back at her, his palm lifting to cradle the back of her hand, though he doesn’t say anything. She steps back, her hand dropping down to cradle the egg in her arms, and hurries downstairs. Tucked safely away in the glass display case, showcased in their own wooden, red velvet-lined box, are two other eggs: one is as big as her palm, smooth and turquoise with flecks of green and deep blue; the other is scaled, large enough to fill both of her palms, and golden as the northern desert’s sands. The middle space has been vacant as long as she can remember, though the velvet still bears its indent. She carefully rests the snowy wyvern’s egg on the display case and withdraws the little wooden box, then sets the egg between the two others. The snowy wyvern’s egg is by far the largest of the three.

She returns the box to its protected corner of the display case, then returns to Asra. He’s rummaging through his bag again. He glances over his shoulder and, seeing her, says, “I have another gift for you.” He pulls out a small blue cloth bag, pressing them into her outstretched hand.

“They’re crystal lotus seeds,” he says. “A gift from the warden of the glacier. I don’t know if they’ll take to the garden, but maybe somewhere indoors?”

He’s moved back to the dining table, now, retrieving his hat from where he had rested it on the back of the chair. From its purple sashed band he pulls a translucent pale blue flower, with darker veins running through each delicate petal. Asra smiles as he reaches up and tucks it over her ear. “There,” he says. “Perfect.”

Her heart flips in her chest. The flower is cold against her ear, faintly sonorous, but all she can think about is the feeling of Asra’s fingertips brushing against her skin. “I thought a lot about the reading you gave me,” he tells her eventually, pulling away and turning back to the basket.

He pulls out the bag of oranges and the lavender and eucalyptus leaves, then glances at her as he starts to put them away. She has a special soapmaking cabinet in the kitchen that nothing food-related is ever allowed to touch. He sets the oranges in their porcelain fruit bowl and the rest in the soapmaking cabinet, next to the lye and pot and moulds.

“Oh?” she asks, settling down at their dining table. The crystal lotus sheds a few snowflakes that melt on the curve of her cheek. She regards the bag of seeds, reaching out with her aura to sense the energy within. _How can I help you grow?_  she asks them, and feels them quiver in her palm.

 _Cold_ , they whisper back, conversing in impressions and images rather than actual words, much like the tarot cards.  _Soil and ice. Chilled vase. We can live here, if you are careful and tender with us._

“Mhm,” Asra says, distracting her from the seeds. She looks up to see him pulling out a tea kettle and a ball of blooming tea. He asks the salamander to light the stove as he fills the kettle with water from the tap.

“Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess what happened today.” She waits for him to lean against the counter, watching her with his arms crossed over his chest while he waits for the water to heat. Ziah pulls the flower from her hair, twirling its stem between her fingers. “The Countess woke up.”

His expression slackens in shock and he straightens, lowering his hands to brace himself on the counter behind him. “Nadi?” he asks. “She woke up? Today?”

Ziah nods, her eyebrows raising. “‘Nadi’?” she asks. He offers a noncommittal shrug.

“We knew each other, once,” he allows, saying nothing more. His gaze flits to the side, his surprise still naked on his face. Reticence is not so unusual for him, but—this is an odd reaction, nonetheless. What are the chances he would return to Vesuvia the day she woke up from her strange slumber?

“Huh,” Asra mutters, eyes narrowing in thought. Ziah tucks the crystal lotus back behind her ear, her fingers damp with melted chips of ice. They spend several minutes in comfortable silence. Eventually, the kettle steams, and Asra thanks the salamander as he pulls it off the stove. In just a few minutes he is sitting across from her, pressing a cup of blooming tea into her hands. He takes a few sips before speaking.

“So, Ziah. I’ve been thinking—I think I’m going to stay here longer, between journeys. Spend more time in the city and less time wandering. Try to be a better teacher to you.” He smiles at her, fingers curling around his cup. “Stop hiding myself away, as you put it. What do you think? Would you like that?”

She stops, for a moment, just to stare at him. He’s watching her, steady and serious, a hint of uncertainty hidden in his purple eyes. Her throat is dry, and she has to swallow several times before she trusts herself to speak. “I would like that very much,” she admits.

Asra exhales, gifting her a wide, dimpled smile that nearly takes her breath away. “Great,” he says.

The soft, affectionate look on his face—in his _eyes_ , she has always been able to read his eyes—makes her think of the Lovers card she had pulled, all those weeks ago. She curls her hands around her mug of tea, fingers interlacing, even as her stomach begins to tie itself into knots. She had thought it referred to someone else, but could it have instead…? Could she be—could they be—?

Oh, she hopes so.

She hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the hermit  
> introspection and loneliness  
> i feel like ziah would be like "lol what?"  
> and he'd be like FUCKING TAROT blowing me up like that
> 
> (actual snippet of my conversation w/ wardsarefunctioning)


	14. omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: background nadia/ziah, background nadia/asra  
> warnings: none

Nadia dreams of water.

She stands alone on a silver beach, with waves of midnight indigo crashing upon the shore. The sky is moonless, but a hundred thousand stars glitter in the sky, more clear and crisp and visible than even in the most remote parts of Prakra. She sees constellations that are unique to Prakra, Hjalle, even Vesuvia—constellations that, in a normal sky, would never share space together.

In the sand is a serpentine creature. It is listless, discolored a sickly-looking blue, but when Nadia approaches, it shifts in the sand. She kneels, gently burrowing her hand into the wet sand and lifting it, the serpentine animal curled within her palm, barely filling it. Sand falls in clumps from her palm, but the creature curls in toward itself. Pale scales glint among a darker sea-like color, a variety of blues and greens.

 _Bring me to Mother Sea,_ the creature tells her. Its elongated, beak-like snout does not move, but its voice is clear in her ears. Its words are raspy with age, and when it speaks, Nadia thinks of dried ocean beds and shining desert sands. _Bring me to Mother Sea, and let an old wyrm at last die in peace._

“What are you?” Nadia asks. “What were you?”

_I am old and weak and alone. That is what I am. Does it matter what I once was?_

“Perhaps it does,” Nadia says.

_And perhaps it does not. It is irrelevant. All that awaits me now is death._

“What happened to you?” Nadia wonders, eyes narrowing. “What happened to you to make you think you have no other recourse?”

 _Who are you to question me?_ the creature demands, rough, ancient voice sharpening. _Who are you to scorn me for my grief, my pain? You do not know me! You do not know what I have lost!_

“What have you lost?” she asks. She brushes more sand off of the being, and clumps of yellowed dead skin go with it. It is clinging to life; perhaps it would be kinder, to give this thing what it wanted. She straightens to her full height, looking out towards the midnight water, and begins to walk to the sea.

_I lost my child. My daughter._

The seawater is warm against her ankles. “I am sorry for your loss,” Nadia murmurs, wading further, uncaring of how the water ruins her silk dress, making her skirts billow out around her.

_You should be. It was your fault, Nadia Satrinava._

She startles, glancing down, and sees the wyrm glaring at her, cupped in the palm of her hand. “I—I _beg_ your pardon? I did not hear you correctly.”

_You did. You watched from your tower as the plague ran rampant, and you did nothing to help the people you had promised to protect._

Nadia’s heart races in her throat, and her stomach twists. The water is warmer, now, bubbling, but when she tries to move, the sand and silt of the ocean floor turns to tar, keeping her in place. Before her, in the water and half-buried by sand, is a not-quite human skeleton draped in fine red robes, purple eyes glowing from empty sockets.

“I—” Nadia starts, faltering, and the wyrm twists in her hand, akin to a beached fish flopping in a desperate, vain attempt to return to the sea. When she sucks in a breath, it is not the sea she smells, but smoke, thick and heavy and nauseating.

_You did nothing!_

“No,” she whispers, unable to look away from the grinning skeleton in the sand. “No, I—I don’t remember—”

_You did NOTHING_

The water is burning, melting her dress, and behind her, on the beach, she hears someone shout her name.

_YOU DID NOTHING_

Nadia cries out in pain as the water boils around her, dropping the wyrm, and she sees it float down to rest in the skeleton’s clawed hand. Red-furred fingers tipped with black claws close over it, and the skeleton sinks into the ocean floor, sand sifting over it.

She is frozen, unable to speak, paralyzed by the muck creeping up her legs, locking her knees, as the water burns and burns and her lungs are filled with smoke. Behind her, a voice desperately shouts _NADI, NO—_

—   —   —

Nadia dreams of fire.

Vesuvia glows with pockets of orange, and even from her balcony at the palace she can smell the stench of smoke and burning flesh and hair. Nadia pulls a cloth from her sleeve and turns, and suddenly she is on the streets of the city itself, standing in the square. The dark of a moonless night seems oppressive, humming with a cadence sung by four different voices.

There is no one in the city, save her, and the corpses. Nadia presses the handkerchief to her mouth and nose, eyes watering, and above she sees a snowy white owl fly above her, darting down into one of the side streets. It is not Chandra, but it reminds her of her beloved owl, and somehow she knows she must follow it. Nadia turns away from the burning piles of bodies, ignoring the faint screams of the grieving, and follows the snowy owl.

After a moment, she sees it again—perched on the outstretched, sore-spotted arm of a plague victim. Its eyes are the same scarlet as the blood shining slick and red on the streets. Nadia stares at it, and thinks: _High Priestess_.

She had not thought that seeing the ancient mentor from her childhood would be a relief, but it is, sharp and light, a counterpoint to the heaviness in her chest.

The owl coos, turning its head to look at something behind it, then turns once more back to her. When it sees she has followed, it hoots and takes wing, flying down the street. Nadia hurries after it, uncaring of the blood in the streets, in the canal beside her. The vampire eels are feasting on something, some _one_ , thrashing in the water; she forces herself to ignore it.

The owl leads her to a side street, near the edge of the slums, and though she sees no fires, she sees their orange glows, lighting up several streets. Every house is draped in indigo and black, Vesuvia’s colors of mourning. The air reeks of plague.

The owl hoots and flaps its wings, settling on a store sign—two black snakes wrapped around a bowl. The front window’s drapes are pulled open, exposing to her view the interior of the shop, brightly lit by gas lamps. Nadia waits, but the owl does not move from its spot, only hooting once more and lifting its wing to groom itself.

Nadia squares her shoulders and approaches the window, looking inside. It is empty of everything save a blue-haired woman sitting on a pink couch, utterly alone. Her shadow casts a long line of black across the room. Nadia watches something massive and white form from the shadows, looming up onto two legs.

It is not the goat creature that haunts her other dreams—this one is larger, more menacing, chained at throat and wrists and cloven feet, with curved black horns that point downward in a sickle shape. Its shackles drag against the wooden floor as it approaches the blue-haired woman from behind.

When it rests its black-fingered hands on her shoulders, Nadia shudders, though the woman shows no reaction. Her silver eyes, rimmed in red, stare straight ahead, and she is expressionless. Nadia watches the devilish creature lean forward, its eyes burning scarlet.

 _You’re almost mine, beloved_ _,_ she hears the creature say. _As you should’ve been long ago._

The woman’s eyes close. She dissolves, body becoming nothing more than thick black ash.

A shadow looms over Nadia, and she turns around to see the other creature of her nightmares. It is goatlike, yes, and smaller and weaker than the other, but no less real-looking. Orange from the spreading flames—the blaze had almost reached her, how had she not noticed it?—flank it like some too-bright corona.

 _Do you miss me, Noddy?_ it hisses.

It reaches for her, and golden light bursts behind her eyes before it can touch her. The creature screams in agony, flinching away from the light, and a warm hand takes hers, another hand covering her eyes.

“Nadi,” a familiar voice says, grief-stricken, “I’m so sorry, let me get you out of here—”

She feels the world spiral away, a strange sensation that makes her stomach plummet, but Nadia grips the hand holding hers, steadied by its warmth and strength. She takes a deep breath, and after a moment the hand falls away.

“There we go,” the golden figure says, softly. “Better?”

She stands in an oasis, surrounded by pink sand and swaying palm trees, with glittering indigo water stretching out before her, the other shore concealed by mist. The world tilts, and slowly she sits down in the sand, the figure from her dreams—never her nightmares—joining her side.  

It is not the first time she has dreamt of this being; she knows it will not be the last.

Nadia swallows, hard, inspecting her hands. Her dress is intact once more, never damaged by the boiling ocean; there are no blisters on her hands, or arms, or chest, where hot water had landed. When she looks over, the golden figure—splayed, now, over the sand—is dressed as he always is, in pinks and whites and reds, the brim of his black, feathered cap concealing his features. His skin is golden as the sun and almost equally too bright to gaze upon.  

“You okay?” he asks, softly. “That was a bad one.”

“I… yes,” Nadia says, and in the back of her mind she hears the wyrm’s accusation, _you did nothing!_ Her voice is soft, unable to hide how shaken she truly is. “Are these dreams prophecy, or memory?”

“I’unno.” He shrugs, tucking his hands under his head. “What do you think?”

“The first nightmare,” she says, “felt… different. Like I was experiencing it before. But it was not quite right. There was something wrong. But if I cannot remember _what_ was different, then I cannot recall what _about_ the dream was wrong. _Ugh._ ” She sighs, rubbing at her forehead on instinct. She is not punished for her dreams until she wakes; already she can feel the migraine building.

“And what do you think about the second one?”

“How much of that did you see?”

“Not much,” the figure admits. “There was something—trying to block me. I just saw the cou—uhh, the goat creature—before bringing you here. I hope you’re okay with me doing that, by the way. I’ve never pulled someone out of their dreams before, but I thought that one was… an exception.”

“You have my thanks,” she says, and though she does not know if he can see, she offers him a gentle smile. He reaches his hand out, and she takes it, comforted when he squeezes her palm. He looks up at the sky, his face hidden by his hat, and Nadia gazes out at the oasis, tracking the swirling of galaxies above them. He does not release her hand, which is… less disconcerting than it perhaps should be.

“It’s good to see you again,” he finally says, and she gets the sense he is smiling at her. “Ignoring, well… all that. I missed you.” 

“Who are you?” Nadia says, as she always does.

He laughs, but within the sound is an underlayer of grief. “You know, you’d think I’d be used to that question by now.” He sighs, releasing her hand, resting his own at his sides. “I wish I could tell you. But you would just forget in the morning.”

“Would I?” Nadia asks, arching an eyebrow. “I remember you well enough from my prior dreams.”

“You—you do?” He sounds surprised.

Nadia’s eyes narrow. Instead of answering, she leans toward the figure, reaching out for the brim of his hat. He starts, stiffening but not moving away, and she tips the edge of the hat up. She sees a glimpse of wide, panicked purple eyes—white curls—a red flush spread over the tops of his cheeks—

Pain bursts behind her eyes, and she wakes.

—   —   —

The darkness of her room is disorienting, but a comfort from the too-bright light that lingers even now against her eyelids. She sags against her pillow, breathing hard, slowly becoming aware of the cool air of her chambers, soothing on her sweat-slick skin; she had kept her windows open for this precise reason. After a moment to collect herself, she leans over, pulling the bell-chain that will summon Portia to her rooms.

She sits up, massaging her forehead and temples, attempting to think of what she had dreamed, but she remembers nothing except the vision of a burning Vesuvia, and too-bright sunlight. Clenching her jaw, she gets to her feet, using her headboard to support her until her legs are steady and strong once again.

She crosses her room, lights the gas lamp at her vanity and goes to her armoire, drawing out a heavy black cloak and her shawl. Portia arrives quickly, which causes Nadia to check the clock on her nightstand. It reads 11:31.

She had only gone to bed an hour ago.

She sighs. It is going to be a long night.

“Is everything all right, milady?” Portia asks, cautiously, observing the cloak in Nadia’s arms. Nadia forces herself to nod, to speak past the migraine.

“Yes. All is well. But I must ask that you prepare a carriage for me at once. I must go into the city. Tell me the moment it is ready.”

Portia does not argue. She nods and curtseys, and leaves with a concerned backward glance. Nadia releases her held breath and puts on her cloak, adjusting her headscarf so it conceals her face in shadow. The raven’s feather seems a bit too much, so she takes it out, leaving it on her vanity dresser-top.

She has heard whispers of the magician Asra’s talents with foresight and other odd magics. She had thought she had left magic behind in Prakra, with her childhood, but these dreams and omens have plagued her long enough. Perhaps Asra will be able to provide insight, or at least offer advice as to how to rid herself of this curse.

Her courtiers had cautioned her against trusting magic, simpering over themselves and assuring her that she needed none but herself and them to run the city (nevermind that they think themselves competent is _laughable_ ). But Portia has told her how popular he is with the people, and kind, though he is often out on long journeys.

It is time to see the merit of these rumors herself.

She only hopes he has not departed for one such journey this night.

She hears the sound of wings and turns to see Chandra fly through the window, beating her wings rapidly so she may land on the perch placed on the corner of Nadia’s desk. Nadia goes to her at once, running her fingers over Chandra’s soft feathers. Chandra turns into the touch, cooing softly, her bright eyes focused on Nadia’s face as she nips gently at Nadia’s fingertips.

 _Let me come with you,_ she requests.

“I am sorry, dearest friend,” Nadia murmurs. “This is something I must do alone. Though you are welcome to follow the carriage, if you like. I doubt I shall be in danger.”

That seems to satisfy her, and she closes her eyes, letting herself be stroked. After several long moments of comfort that soothe the both of them, Nadia pulls away. She paces the room, putting on and taking off various pieces of jewelry until she is satisfied with several amethyst pieces. The clock’s hands read _11:46_ when Portia finally returns, bringing news of a carriage prepared for her at the stables.

Nadia makes her way to the carriage alone. It is the least extravagant of her collection, dark cherry wood with golden designs painted on its sides, pulled by two Friesians. Despite the subtlety, she has no doubt that the entire court will hear of her quittance of the palace by dawn. Still, it is another reason to appreciate Portia’s discretion.

“Where to, Countess?” the coachman asks.

“The central square of the city,” she says. “I shall instruct you further from there.”

It is an hour’s walk from the central square to the palace gates, and a twenty-five minute ride by carriage over the same distance. Nadia does not remember the precise route she had taken in that nightmare, but somehow she knows which roads will take her to the magician Asra, and conveys them to the coachman. As the carriage is moving, she inhales the crisp air—cool and crisp, smelling of the canals and the ocean, not smoke or flame or flesh—and wonders how she might know the way to that place in her dreams.

Perhaps… perhaps she has been here before. In her time as Countess, which is a black hole in her memory.

Just as she thinks it, her migraine throbs behind her eyes, pain reverberating all the way to the top of her forehead. Nadia groans, pressing her fingers to the space between her brows, clenching her jaw. She tries in vain to soothe the headache all the up until the carriage comes to a stop. Nadia pulls back the black velvet curtain and looks up at the storefront—the sign is a bowl with two snakes wrapped around it, and a front window with open curtains and a darkened interior.

The coachman opens the door and holds a hand out to help her from the carriage, parked across from the store. “I’ll await your return, milady,” he says. She nods and sets her shoulders, striding for the door. She knocks, loudly, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Chandra settle on a flat rooftop across the street. Nadia waits, holding her breath, and knocks again, several sharp raps of her knuckles on the door.

Several minutes later, she distinctly hears the turn of the door’s lock.

Has it been unlocked this entire time?

Oh, of all the—she fights a frown and knocks harder, faster. “I am not leaving, magician!” she calls through the door. She hears a sigh, and the lock turns the other way. Nadia stands tall as the door opens, and a blue-haired figure in pajamas and wrapped in a shawl squints at her, a tiny flame cupped in their palm as a makeshift candle.

It takes her a few moments to recognize the figure as the one from her dreams, with the long braided hair. Asra’s hair is cut short, now, mid-neck, and half of it is tied back. She allows a moment of concern—what had the dream, meant, that Asra turned to ash, and was shadowed by a demonic being in chains?—before pushing it aside. It does not matter.

All that matters is this meeting could be the answer to what she seeks: a way to end her dreams, and prevent the future she had dreamed.

“Forgive me for the hour, but I will not suffer another sleepless night,” Nadia says.

Asra sighs, rubbing at one of their eyes with their wrist, and steps aside, allowing her in. Once the door is shut behind her, Nadia lifts her hands, pulling down the shawl that covers her hair and shadows her face, and Asra’s eyes widen, shock flitting across their face. Nadia is unsurprised. This shop is dangerously close to the flooded district—no doubt few nobles frequent these parts of the city.

Nadia lowers her hands and meets the magician’s silver gaze. “At last I turn to magical assistance—yours, specifically. Your reputation precedes you, among beggars and nobles alike. The people of this city whisper your name in wonder. Please, Asra, you must read the cards for me.”

Asra blinks at her, gaze hardening. “I’m not Asra. Sorry, you must have the wrong place.”

Nadia’s eyes narrow. She understands their reluctance, especially at so late an hour—but lying to her outright? “Spare your breath, magician. This is the place. I know it. I have seen it before, in a future I will _not_ allow to come to pass.”

“I’m still not Asra, so.” They lift a shoulder. “Still can’t help you. Sorry.”

“But this is Asra’s shop,” Nadia says. “My dreams said it was so.”

“Yeah,” the magician replies, as they extinguish their candlelight and light a gas lamp. Nadia’s eyes narrow, and they continue. “I’m his apprentice.”

Ah. Nadia relaxes her shoulders. She has heard of Ziah as well—more distant than her master, less fond of people, but Portia has reported a handful of whispers that Ziah is more powerful. She will do just as well, then.

“Then you must be Ziah. I apologize for the confusion. I have heard of you as well, though admittedly, you are not as well known as your master.”

A shadow passes over her face at that word, _master_.

“He’s not my master,” Ziah snaps. Nadia’s brows raise, and a flush rises on Ziah’s cheeks. She looks away, the shadow of anger melting into embarrassment. She presses her curled fingers to her stomach, picking at her fingernails. She is taller than Nadia would be were Nadia not wearing heels, but her slightly hunched shoulders do much to hide her true height.

“I see,” she says. “Nevertheless, I come with a proposal for you.”

“Wait,” Ziah replies, looking back at Nadia. “Earlier. What was that about—seeing this place before? And your dreams? What did you mean?”

Ah. She had caught that. Nadia will have to be careful with her words around her. She presses her lips together before replies. “I have… dreams,” she allows. “It is an unwelcome ability. They are dreams haunted by visions of a future waiting to unfold. But the future I saw, the one that brought me to you… is one I will not allow to pass. So tell me, magician Ziah, will you hear my proposal?”

Ziah looks at her for a long time—time that affords Nadia the chance to examine her sharp features in better light, take note of the dusting of freckles across her brown skin and the fullness of her mouth—and when the minutes stretch on, Nadia says, “Not very talkative, are you? Nervous, perhaps? You needn’t be. I require very little of you.”

Ziah finally nods to herself, and Nadia relaxes. Ziah tightens the shawl around her shoulders, slipping past Nadia, and Nadia sees several constellations sewn with white thread, stark against the circular weaving of the tasselled, navy shawl. Nadia follows her into a back room parted with a beaded curtain, and Ziah gestures to the table draped in several fabrics—lavender silk with silver brocade, turquoise velvet with gold tassels, deep purple satin.

 _Very_ rich fabrics. Curious for a house so close to the flooded districts, on the verge of the slums. Nadia sits on one of the stool seats, upholstered with red velvet and carved from cherry wood. Ziah sits across from her. The table is empty, but when she runs her hand across the brocade and turns up her wrist, the tarot is there, nestled in the cradle of her palm.

“What’s your proposal?” she asks as she shuffles. She favors her right hand, Nadia notes.

“Be my guest at the palace. You will be afforded every luxury, of course. I ask only that you bring your skill… and the arcana.”

“Why?” Ziah asks, her suspicion plain in her tone. She does not glare at Nadia, but Nadia can sense her…  _hostility_ is not the appropriate word. _Wariness,_ perhaps. Distance. She does not know if it is her nobility, or the fact that she had woken Ziah up in the middle of the night, or something else.

“You shall see for yourself, should you choose to be my dinner guest on the morrow.”

Ziah spreads the cards out in three arcing rows before Nadia, and closes her eyes, drawing a single finger over the three rows before she picks a card and holds it up so Nadia can see its face. A red fox with crossed arms, draped in red robes and purple eyes, with various shades of blue flame behind it.

It is the same—

A skeleton with furred fingers, buried within the sea, the wyrm in its grasp—

“The Magician,” Ziah says, without ever once seeing the face of the card.

Her migraine _throbs_ , pulsing behind her eyes. Nadia breathes deeply through the pain, closing her eyes briefly to reorient herself.

“How fitting,” she manages. “And what does he have to say for me?”

The conversation continues, and Nadia does her best to pay attention despite the growing ache in her head. Every word Ziah speaks, however plain and self-evident, only piques Nadia’s interest. She is no match for the legend that surrounds this mysterious Asra, and Nadia is not yet drawn to Ziah’s name as she is to Asra’s, but perhaps…

Perhaps Ziah will be what she needs, in the end. Perhaps Ziah can be the key to saving this city from its ruinous future.

“Say no more,” Nadia says, rising. Ziah does not rise—she stares up at her, challenge in her silver eyes—and Nadia arches an eyebrow in turn. “I have only one question remaining. Will you accept my proposal?”

“That’s all you want?” Ziah asks, arching an eyebrow. Her shawl has slipped down her body, revealing the curve of a freckled brown shoulder. “Just for me to come to the palace tomorrow for dinner?”

“Indeed.” Nadia smiles, briefly, and after a moment of consideration—she _is_ rather intriguing, and pretty besides. She leans forward, resting one hand on the table, over the spread cards, fingers brushing hers. “Shall I expect to see you again, Ziah?”

Ziah sucks in a soft breath at the slight touch, her eyes widening. A light blush colors her cheeks, creeping down her face to color her neck. She looks back at where their fingers brush and pulls her hand away, red-faced as she begins to gather up her cards in silence.

Most interesting.

“I’ll, um, I’ll think about it,” she finally says.

“Very well. I will tell the guards to expect you at the gates.” Nadia wraps her hair again, drawing her scarf over the lower half of her face as she walks into the poorly-lit front room, and waits as Ziah joins her side. Nadia waits, but Ziah does not move, still watching her despite the redness in her cheeks.

 _B_ _old,_ Nadia thinks, approvingly. She has not met many since her reawakening who did not bow and simper and avoid eye contact.

This is… a refreshing change.

Nadia clears her throat, nodding toward the front door, but Ziah only arches an eyebrow. Nadia bites back her laughter, allowing her mouth to curl into a faint, soft smile.

“I shall see you on the morrow, then,” she says, opening the door and stepping out onto the street. Ziah turns off the gas lamp, and the shop is dark once more. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something move at the far end of the shop, but cannot make out any particular shape.

Before she can take a closer look, Ziah moves to stands on the doorstep behind Nadia, shawl wrapped around herself, and watches Nadia in silence. Her only acknowledgement of Nadia’s words is a shallow dip of her head.

“Pleasant dreams, Ziah,” Nadia bids, and without a backwards look she returns to the carriage. Only when her back is to Ziah does she allow herself to massage her aching head.

“Return to the palace,” she instructs the coachman. “We have an honored guest to prepare for tomorrow.”


	15. the brightest shade of sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought we deserved just a day to ourselves,” she tells him, her heart pounding as he takes a near-silent step forward. “No palace. No beetles. No goat. Just us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is **nsfw** and features post-episode ix ziah and asra. mostly vanilla, but lots of magical shenanigans. i am somewhat satisfied with it after about 4 days of tweaking.

She wakes with a face full of sunlight. Groaning, she turns away, dragging the covers over her head before she realizes there is no Asra beside her to grumble and try to yank them back from her unrelenting grip. She sits up at once, kicking off the quilted blue-and-purple duvet and scanning her eyes over their bedroom, the attic of their little house. She takes in the hammock—empty of the six different pillows that were meant to decorate the bed and full of crumpled but clean laundry instead—and Faust’s pillow in the brightest corner underneath, the velvet faded from the sun and still slightly indented.

Her heart sinks.

He’d left her again.

Until she sees a note left on his side of the bed they share, labelled with her name. She unfolds it and reads: _Just went to the market to pick up some things. You look so beautiful right now. Didn’t want to wake you._

A warmth suffuses her chest, creeping up her neck and flushing her cheeks. She runs a hand through her messy hair, ignoring the strange sense of loss when she feels it settle around her shoulders, pretending not to hear the voice in the back of her mind that whispers it should be much, much longer.

She sets aside the note and raises her hands above her head, stretching until she feels her back and shoulders pop with several satisfying cracks, and then lowers her hands to the duvet. Asra had left the window open, and the warm summer breeze brings the smell of the canals on its back, rustling the fronds of their potted ferns. She should get up. Start preparing for the day.

But it is Saturday, supposedly a day of rest; usually it’s the only day the shop is closed. But these past three days have been anything _but_ usual. And she’s still exhausted from their late-night meeting with Nadia about beetles and Lucio and a possible return of the red plague. _That_ had been a fun conversation.

So instead she flops back on the bed and thinks about two nights ago, when she, soaked and shivering, had stripped to almost nothing in order to huddle in front of the fire—and Asra’s eyes had darkened when he saw her. _Don’t tempt me_ , he’d said, but he’d been smiling, and he had come when she beckoned anyway. She can still picture his dilated pupils and his faint smile; she can still feel the warmth of his bare arms around her.

She sits up again, fingers tapping against the duvet. Asra had gone to the market, presumably with Faust. He would be back soon. She knows he wants her, and he knows that she knows that, but maybe—maybe he thinks she doesn’t want him?

As if stripping naked and asking him to join her in front of the fire wasn’t enough of a signal.

Or maybe he didn’t want sex. That was possible. Or maybe she had been pushing him too fast, too far, and he wasn’t ready—

No. She pushes those thoughts from her mind. He would’ve told her if either of those were true. There was just… something holding him back. She had never known what that “something” was, because he’d never told her. But… something tells her that he would tell her, this time. If she asked.

She brushes her teeth, strips out of her pajamas and goes looking for something to wear, something that would make him stop dead in his tracks and stare at her, wide-eyed and cheeks red, her favorite expression. But nothing seems right. Nothing seems like it’ll have the effect she wants.

Until she finds an oversized shirt, stuffed at the bottom of one of Asra’s dressers, with a plunging neckline and billowing long sleeves with lace cuffs. She shrugs it on, frowning at its faint smell—coffee, and leather. Strange. Neither of them drink coffee, nor wear leather. Where had Asra gotten this shirt, then?

Oh well. The neckline reveals the curves of her breasts quite nicely, though her nipples are prominent shadows under the starched white fabric. She finds a dangling rose quartz pendant that rests atop her sternum and slides a matching ring onto her thumb, just because. She takes a stick each of sandalwood and rose incense and goes downstairs to the kitchen, acutely aware of how the shirt only covers her to the mid-thigh.

“I hope I don’t give him a heart attack,” she murmurs to herself. She sets the incense in the pearlescent holder, shaped like a curling water wyrm surrounded by the ocean’s waves, and lights them with a fragile flame from the tip of her thumb. Once that’s done, she checks the kitchen, ignoring her rumbling stomach. There’s enough vegetables for a soup, and some dry pasta, but they have no tomatoes to make a sauce. She kneels down, opening the charmed icebox, and grins when she sees a handful of swordfish steaks. She checks them and her grin widens upon finding they’re still fresh. Perfect.

She closes the icebox, leaving the steaks inside, and stands, crossing to the phonograph pushed up against the wall, surrounded by green houseplants and right next to a faded pinkish-red antique couch in gold trim. She finds a vinyl record and sets it on the phonograph, waiting until the initial scratches even out to smooth notes of piano and guitar, a jazzy melody she’d put on a dozen different times before. Then she returns to the kitchen, bobbing her head along to the beat, and starts gathering the ingredients for her swordfish steak marinade.

Lemon. Olive oil. Oregano, cilantro, thyme. Crushed black pepper. Onions. Salt. She’s missing something.

Downstairs, the door opens, and the windchimes above the entrance ring softly, sending a thousand different tones drifting through the shop. She can hear Asra talking to Faust, his voice too low to make out any actual words, and bites her lip as she listens to his footsteps on the staircase behind her.

“Oh,” Asra says, a minute later.

She slowly turns, leaning against the counter, hoping she doesn’t betray the nervousness jittering through her. Asra stands stock still across the room, his hand on the staircase newel. His gaze is locked on her, eyes wide and lips parted. She watches him look her over, eyes roving over first her displayed legs, then her hips, then her breasts and finally her face. A blush steadily spreads across his cheeks. “Ziah. Uh… wow.”

Ziah smiles, feeling coyer than she’d anticipated, and says nothing. Faust trills in amusement and slides down Asra’s shoulders onto the staircase railing, climbing up and disappearing into the attic bedroom above. The moment she’s gone, Asra gives himself a little shake, then looks at her with hooded eyes. His mouth quirks up into a faint smile. “You look great.”

“I thought we deserved just a day to ourselves,” she tells him, her heart pounding as he takes a near-silent step forward. She watches as he shrugs off his long patterned vest and lets his bag drop to the floor, watches him toe off his boots and pad toward her, barefoot. “No palace. No beetles. No goat.” He laughs at that, dark purple eyes crinkling in the corners, and she lets him wrap his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest. She reaches up and brushes a strand of starlight-colored hair out of his face. “Just us,” she says. His expression softens.

“Mm. Sounds perfect.” He presses his nose to the hollow of her cheek, nuzzling, and her breath catches, her eyes fluttering shut. His lips trail up her jaw to brush against a spot just under her ear, and she can feel his smile when she shivers. His hands fist the fabric at her hips, slowly pulling it up until she feels the hem brush the curve of her ass. He breathes her name against her ear, and she shivers again, harder than last time.

“Sensitive there, huh?” he asks, pulling back. “I never knew.”

She opens her eyes. He’s smiling at her, the tilt of his lips gentle and playful and fond; a moment later, his eyes—darkened to a plum shade, now, the pupils almost swallowing up the irises—drop down to her lips. Almost immediately afterward he meets her gaze, and his arms tighten around her. She cannot help but feel as if he is waiting for her to move, like he had when she’d kissed him in the oasis.

She bites her lip and lifts her hand, cupping his cheek, running her thumb over his soft skin. Asra’s eyes fall shut and he turns his head, nuzzling into her touch. “So I guess this is the part where I ask if you want me, too,” she whispers. “I figure you do, but…” Asra’s breath catches, throat bobbing as he swallows. After an almost-too-long moment of silence, he opens his eyes, meeting her gaze once again.

“Yes,” he whispers, and kisses her. He catches her muffled whimper, his hands lifting to sink into her hair, fingers tightening on her scalp. His hips shift, pressing against hers, revealing the truth of his words. There’s a familiar desperation to him, hidden within the kiss, one that reveals itself with every caress of his mouth over hers. When he breaks away, he stays close, his eyes wide open and earnest as he stares at her. “I—” he starts, swallowing hard, then shakes his head, his thumb caressing her temple. “Mizi, I’ve wanted you for so long—”

She grins, wrapping her arms around him as she closes their scant distance once more. Asra groans into her mouth, his hands sneaking under her loose, oversized shirt to brace against the curve of her spine. He presses her back against the counter and slides his knee between her legs. She arches into his touch, a jolt of heat running like electricity from the base of her spine to the top of her head, leaving her skin tingling. When he presses his thigh against her sex, she breaks the kiss with a gasp, head falling back and eyes fluttering shut.

Asra immediately busies himself with peppering kisses under her jaw and down her throat, his teeth catching on sensitive bits of skin and sucking. She struggles to catch her breath, anchoring herself to him with an arm wrapped around his shoulders and her free hand gripping his hair. She can only hear the soft jazz music, still playing in the background, and the thud of her pulse in the tips of her ears.

Everything else is Asra.

He lifts his thigh, pressing against her core, and she whimpers, unable to keep her body from rocking down, from seeking more of that delicious pressure. His hands move down to grip and knead her ass, pulling her hips forward, helping her grind against his thigh. She thinks she hears him whisper _perfect_ against the hollow of her throat, but she can’t be sure. “A-Asra,” she chokes out, one hand moving to grip the back of his neck. He moans when her nails dig into his skin, but he stays put, sucking bruises into the column of her throat. Ziah opens her eyes, staring blindly at the dried herbs that hang from the kitchen ceiling.

“The couch,” she gasps out, even as she continues to rut against his thigh, shuddering at the pleasure. “Not here, sweet. That’s where— _food_ — _oh, fuck_ —”

With a sigh, Asra pulls away. She swallows her whimper of disappointment as he gently lowers her, and as she blinks back into herself she realizes he had half-lifted her onto the counter. She steadies herself, still a little dazed and acutely aware of the flush across her face and down her throat.

Asra doesn’t look much better: he’s just as red as her, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling shallowly as he catches his breath. When he notices her staring, he smirks at her, showing a hint of his pearly teeth, and takes her hands in his, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses the backs of her knuckles and intertwines their fingers, gently pulling her back toward the faded antique couch.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. A flash of nervousness steals over his features. “Any chest pain? Or headaches?”

Ziah shakes her head. The brief worry fades, replaced with a small smile that betrays the extent of his relief. He kisses the insides of her wrists, his gaze lingering on her face. She doesn’t bother trying to hide the hitch in her breath, or her answering smile. He releases her, his hands going to the hem of his shirt, but she catches his wrists and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Let me,” she asks. He bites his lip and nods. She slides her hands under the hem of his shirt, palms curving around his soft stomach, feeling how the muscles in his abdomen twitch at her touch. She drags her nails down his side and he squirms away, laughing, burying his face in her neck. “Ticklish?” she teases, and he nods, smiling against her skin. She lays her palms flat against his solar plexus, then, before dragging them up and resting them over his chest. Her thumbs circle his nipples and his breath catches. “Arms up,” she says, and he obeys, letting her tug the shirt off and toss it somewhere behind her. She reaches up and unclasps the golden collar around his neck, then pulls the blue fluorite necklace over his head. She kisses the tip of his nose and steps away. “Be right back.”

She turns and rests his necklaces on their rickety dining table. When she turns around, her breath catches: Asra is turned away from her, kicking off his trousers, entirely bare before her. Her gaze follows the movement of his back muscles, then trails down to stare unashamedly at his ass. Asra straightens, stretching his arms above his head, and gives her a coy look over his shoulder when he’s done. “Like what you see?” he asks, lips quirking up.

“You are so beautiful,” she tells him. Asra’s eyes widen for a heartbeat, and he lowers his arms. After a moment, the surprise seems to fade, replaced with a gentle look.

“Is that so?” he asks. She nods. He laughs to himself and turns to sits on the couch, watching her through hooded eyes. His cock is hard and flushed, gently curving up toward his belly, nestled in a thatch of pale hairs. Ziah swallows and lifts a hand, ready to simply push her shirt off of her shoulders and let it pool around her feet—it’s certainly large enough to _do_ that—but Asra shakes his head. “No, keep it. It suits you.” He smiles, teasing. “Especially with the rose quartz.”

Ziah laughs and walks toward him, making sure to add an exaggerated sway to her hips. “I wished to go all out for you. Glad it worked.”

“I appreciate it,” he tells her. “Though you never need that with me.” His voice is sweetly earnest, a contrast to the blatant want in his gaze. Ziah finally closes the distance and climbs into his lap, straddling him. His hands immediately go to the backs of her thighs, fingers stroking over the stretch marks there before moving up to grip her ass. She takes his hand and guides it to the apex of her thighs, noting the tremble in his wrist.

“Are you all right?” she murmurs, and he nods, kissing the hollow of her cheek.

“It’s just—can I try something?”

“Yes,” she says, and he takes a shallow breath.

“Tell me if you feel any pain,” he asks, almost pleading. She nods, blinking. She feels his fingers part her folds, hears him hiss a soft, fervent curse when he feels how wet she is, but she doesn’t quite know what to expect until—

Until she feels his aura.

Before, she had only truly noticed it when they were in the other plane—exploring his oasis or speaking with the Magician—but here, now, it is present and stretching toward her, as hesitant as someone expecting rejection but trying anyway. When it presses against her magic, against her own aura, her breath catches and she clutches him tighter, choking on his name. She can _feel_ him, a fierce, almost overwhelming warmth that washes over her like water, brimming with his emotions. There’s longing, and regret, but also joy and pride and… and love, above all. It takes her breath away.

He loves her so much—how had she not seen it before?

She reaches back, not physically but with her magic. Though she is not quite sure what she’s doing, the auras suddenly don’t just brush against each other but _join,_ and then it feels as if something has slid into place, as if something is finally _right_ between them. The edges of his aura blend with hers, and hers weaves with his, until she cannot tell where she begins and he ends. Ziah gasps at the sensation, clutching him to her, only distantly aware of the languid heat between her thighs, where his hand is still working her over. He’s whispering to her, praise and encouragement and questions, questions like _is this good_ or _do you like this_ or _more?_

“Yes,” she gasps, the only thing she can think to say. “Yes, Asra, _please_.” Her hips roll into the steady pressure of his hand, seeking out more of his touch. He has a single finger inside of her, crooked, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit. She can feel how wet she is, can _feel_ her slick soaking his hand down to his wrist. She shrugs her shoulders and her oversized shirt slips down to her elbows, exposing her breasts, her nipples tightening into peaks despite the warm summer air. Asra groans, leaning her back until she has to clutch at him for support, and dips down to kiss her breasts. His aura is warm around her, and the air around him seems luminescent, a corona of silvers and golds.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

He presses another finger inside her, gently curling the tips of them up against some spot within her, and she clutches him close to her as she comes with a low groan, her entire body shaking. Asra watches her, rapt, and she cannot tear her wide-eyed gaze away from his. He guides her down from her high, and she shivers when he pulls his fingers from her. Her whole body tingles as she tries to catch her breath, the air humming with their intertwined magic. When she blinks, she can see glowing neon motes of dust in the air, spiraling away as spots of purple and red and bright green. She leans forward, bracing herself with an arm slung over his shoulders, and cups his cheek in her free hand. Sweat trickles down his temple, slicking her palm. He smells like rose and sandalwood and sex, and her heart hurts with how much she loves him.

Ziah leans down to kiss him and he surges up to meet her, ever hungry for her touch, his hand—still wet from her arousal—curving around her thigh and cupping her leg. She licks her way into his mouth, tasting his favorite tea on his tongue, and he groans when she moves an arm to take him in hand. He’s hard in her palm, throbbing, and he bucks when she rubs a circle into the underside of his cock, letting loose a low moan that thrills through her.

“Please,” he gasps, resting his forehead against her collarbone, mottled red with kiss-shaped bruises. Ziah nods.

She exhales heavily as she guides him to her entrance, the muscles in her thighs twitching as she slowly sinks down onto him. She’s still sensitive, still coming down from her high. Asra clutches her, muscles rigid as he tries to hold himself still. “Perfect,” he groans against her throat. “Perfect, Mizi, you’re so— _hah_ —”

Ziah’s lips curve into a smile. He sounds so frayed already, so close to his finish. Quick as a flash of magic, she grips his shoulders and shoves him sideways, twisting their bodies so he lands on his back, his head thumping against the couch cushion. His gaze flies up to hers, lips parting in surprise before his gaze darkens. Ziah runs her hand up his body, dragging the heel of her palm from his hip to his chest, and then starts to rock against him. “You look so beautiful,” she tells him, voice rough, barely louder than the music that surrounds them as surely as their auras do. “Do you know how beautiful you are, Asra, sweet?”

Asra swallows, his hands drifting across her body, touching her everywhere, everywhere. “So beautiful,” she murmurs. She tilts her hips, taking him at a deeper angle, enjoying the full-body shudder that runs through him. Her mouth is dry, sweat beading at the back of her neck and between her ribs, running down her sides and temples in droplets. She leans toward him, breasts swaying with the movement, her rose quartz pendant falling to rest over his heart. “Is this good?” she asks, her words almost a purr.

“Yes,” he croaks, nodding, his hands running over the scars on her back, making her shiver. “Don’t stop, please—”

“I won’t,” she promises, peppering kisses over his jaw and throat, tasting the sweat gathered in the hollows of his body. “I won’t.” She quickens her pace, hips dragging against his. It is not long before Asra’s breaths grow ragged, until he cries out, stiffening under her.

“I’m—” he starts, but his voice fails him, and his hands tighten on her body. She lifts herself up, rising to her knees, and his cock slides out of her with a wet sound. She swallows his whimper with a panting, open-mouthed kiss as she lowers herself once more, grinding against the length of his cock, trapping it between their bodies. His hands lift from her hips to thread through her hair, tangling in it. One more slick slide against him and he is gone, hips bucking against her as he comes between her thighs. Their auras weave together, and she tries to flood him with her love, tries to show him how much he means to her, how he is her home, her light. How he helps fill the emptiness in her chest.

It works.

Asra gasps, his eyes snapping open and resting immediately on her face. He bites his lip as he stares at her, wide eyes glazed and face flushed. His mouth parts, forming the shape of her name, but nothing escapes him except an obscene moan that makes them both flush red.

“Beautiful,” she tells him. She does not stop moving against him until the soft sound that escapes his throat is more pain than pleasure, and then she lifts herself off of him, wedging herself between Asra and the back of the couch—leaving Asra in danger of falling off if he makes even one wrong move. He had made a mess of himself, thick strings of white decorating his stomach and chest and even his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to care, still too focused on catching his breath. His head lolls toward her, eyes hooded. He lifts a hand, cupping her cheek, and she turns her head to kiss his lifeline.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice hoarse and rasping and utterly wrecked. It leaves a warm glow of satisfaction in her chest. She can feel his aura pulling back into himself, gently disentangling from hers, yet his absence doesn’t leave her feeling bereft, only warm and sated. She’s here with him. That’s enough.

“I feel perfect,” she says. “That was—perfect.” His face relaxes, some nameless anxiety in his eyes easing, and he smiles at her, reaching out to tuck a sweaty strand of deep blue hair behind her ear. Ziah clears her throat. “You know, this couch is going to smell like sex for the rest of our lives.”

He laughs, eyes crinkling as he nods in agreement. “One moment,” he says, and gets up to clean himself off. She watches him unashamedly, propping her head up on one hand so she can stare after him. Asra pauses halfway to flip the record that has gone quietly staticky, and the soft sounds of piano and guitar fills the room once again. He gives her a smile over his shoulder then continues on his way to the kitchen. As he wipes his torso down with a rag wetted from the pump, he calls back, “Were you getting ready to make swordfish steaks? You forgot the paprika.”

Ah. That’s what it was. She always forgets the paprika. It’s from… Nevivon, she thinks. How does she know that? “How did we even hear about that stuff?” she asks, sitting up.

“A friend introduced it to you,” he says. “Or so you told me.”

Which, of course, she doesn’t remember. She frowns, but he finishes cleaning up and tosses the rag to her, which she uses to wipe up the slick between her legs. When she’s done, she tosses it back to him, and he sets it in the sink. Humming, he takes a different washcloth and pushes her assorted marinade ingredients to the far counter, wiping down the area thoroughly. She takes a moment to enjoy the sight of his naked back, watching the muscles shift under his smooth brown skin.

“Come back,” she says. “I miss you.”

Asra glances at her over his shoulder, then immediately turns and walks toward her, leaving the rag behind on the counter. She opens her arms and reaches for him once he is close to her, pulling him onto the couch and into her embrace. Asra smiles, cheeks dimpling; she can’t resist the urge to kiss one of those dimples, and she smirks when she hears his breath catch. Asra pulls away, bracing his arms on either side of her head, his smile lingering as he runs his hand through her hair. His expression is soft, fond, but soon his forehead creases, something flickering in his gaze.

“What?” she asks, familiar wariness sparking through her.

“No pain?” he asks. She reaches up and brushes a lock of white hair from his face, then kisses him, a brief, chaste peck.

“No pain,” she tells him. His answering smile is radiant, lighting up his entire face, and he leans down to kiss her. Her eyes fall shut and she briefly feels his aura reach for hers, radiating in waves the depths of his joy, his love. Her chest tightens, but it is a brief, dull ache, one that she can ignore. Asra breaks the kiss and cuddles closer to her, his legs tangling with hers.

“You’re growing your hair out,” he eventually says. “It suits you.”

“You think everything suits me,” she tells him, rolling her eyes.

“Because everything does,” he says, his smile dimpling his cheeks.

“Maybe I’ll braid it,” she murmurs to him, her eyelids already drooping, her body readying itself for her afternoon free-day nap. She’s expecting him to laugh or smile or agree with a _sure, why not_. Instead, he swallows, his arm tightening around her.

“Please do,” he says. His voice is pitched just as low as hers had been, but there’s a strange, underlying grief in his tone. She blinks up at him, squinting at him in suspicion, and he smiles, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Hey. Take your nap. I’ll be here.”

She tugs him down so he is laying down beside her, then lifts her head, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Once she’s comfortable, she stretches forward to press a kiss to his cheek, just over his dimple. “Promise?” she teases. His smile fades and he shifts to face her better, his hand lifting to cup her face, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone.

“Promise.”

In the end, he is the first one to succumb to the temptation of an afternoon nap, his ear pressed over her chest to listen to her heartbeat. She holds him, listening to the soft jazz coming from the phonograph and the windchimes downstairs, enjoying the gentle breeze that cools the stickiness of summer heat and sex. Her fingers card through his silky hair, enjoying the peace of the moment, and she turns her head to kiss his forehead. Asra makes a sound in his sleep, his arms tightening around her, and her lips curve against his brow. She falls asleep to the sound of his breathing, slow and steady, and the jazz playing freely.


	16. hello, my old heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairings: every possible combination of julian/mc/asra you can think of  
> warnings: none
> 
> have some julian practice!! written for the julian week, prompt "pain" (my one true calling). 
> 
> (˵ ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°˵)ﾉ⌒♡*:･。.

It is late when he finally leaves the Rowdy Raven, just a touch drunk and still grinning from his last game of cards. He’d told his companions some of his rowdier stories of his life aboard a pirate ship, and won a handsome amount of coins besides. A good night, well spent. He fingers his coin-purse and takes out a doubloon, humming a tavern song under his breath, sticking to the shadows though he knows that the last guard patrol passed an hour ago and won’t come back for at least another. He glances up, only to see the inky imprint of the raven cut through the light of the moon, soaring above him. Always keeping a lookout. Good bird, that one.

He finds his thoughts drifting to Ziah, as they have for about, oh, the past three days. He hadn’t seen her since the docks. Since he—ended things. Between them.

 _As if there had been something_ to _end_ , he finds himself thinking, a trace of bitterness in the thought. They’d only known each other for… what, two days?

Immediately, he flips the doubloon and catches it, closing his fingers over the coin. That isn’t fair to her. She had been kind to him, kinder than he’d expected for someone who had remorselessly swung a bottle full of pickled newt’s eyes at his head. She’d been clever, too, cleverer than he’d initially given her credit for. When he had stripped out of his jacket and then offered to let her search him, she had leaned forward with an enigmatic smile, told him in no uncertain terms to stay still, and then ducked under his outstretched arms and searched his jacket, where she immediately found the key to her own damn shop.

He still remembers with crystal clarity her pulling him into an abandoned garden, where he had quickly gotten drunk on the sight of her smile, and her low, throaty huffs of laughter. He had kissed her because all night he’d wondered what she tasted like, and he’d wanted to find out if her hair felt as soft as it looked, and it wasn’t her fault that he kept falling for magicians like the God-damned idiot he was—

_Damn it, Devorak. Enough of that._

He flips the doubloon again, frowning. Anyway. None of that mattered anymore. He had put a stop to whatever was growing between them, and she had let him walk her home, and that was that. The very next day, the baker was telling everyone who would listen how Ziah and Asra had shown up in his shop together, only to leave the city a few hours later, hand-in-hand.

Ilya rolls the coin between his fingers, unclenches his jaw, and takes a breath, letting it out in a slow exhale. He shouldn’t be jealous, or bitter. He _wouldn’t_. That had been what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? For her to be happy, safe. Asra could do both of those things for her, and the shadow of the hangman’s noose would never hang over either of their necks.

And… Asra would be happier with her than he had ever been with Ilya.

Ilya swallows hard, closing his eye. _Don’t dwell on that._

He distracts himself with rolling the doubloon between his knuckles and keeps walking. Halfway to Mazelinka’s, the raven circles him and swoops down, cawing as it lands on his shoulder. He presses against the wall, casting his gaze around, but sees nothing, hears nothing. “Guards afoot?” he murmurs. The bird caws again and takes wing, flying around the corner of the street. Usually, when there are guards, he swarms Ilya, squawking like a mad creature. This is… different.

Ilya frowns and follows, too curious to ignore the bird’s odd behavior. The raven circles back every so often, making sure he is following, and then swoops down to disappear behind the curve of a street. He takes several turns before he realizes he’s being led to the docks. As he turns another corner, coming onto an open main street—one frequently patrolled by guards, he notes—he sees what the raven had led him to. Or, rather, _who_.

Ziah. He can only make out the dark blue of her hair, gleaming in the moonlight, but he recognizes her.

His breath catches despite himself. He opens his mouth, ready to call out, but Ziah turns another corner before he can say anything. Ilya shakes his head, biting his lip. It’s probably not wise to go after her. She’s a grown woman, and she can make her own decisions, even if one such decision is wandering around the rougher parts of town in the dead of night. But…

He should check on her. Just to be certain. If she tells him to go, tells him she never wants to see him again, then—then that will be that.

Determined now, Ilya takes a steadying breath and follows her. He’s close behind her when she reaches the dockyard. “Ziah!” he calls out, slowing, but she doesn’t even turn, doesn’t even act as if she’d heard him. The raven lands on her shoulder, but she keeps walking, eventually turning onto a dock and walking toward the ocean. Ilya swallows and quickens his pace, catching up to her just as she reaches the end of the dock and stops. He stops behind her, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her arm.

He’s lost that privilege.

“Ziah,” he says, low and careful. She doesn’t react.

The moon is hidden behind thick deep grey clouds, making her blue hair seem black in the darkness. The Lazaret rises out of the bay, a shadow against the horizon, and though he’s seen it a thousand times before, the sight of the abandoned islet still sends a shiver down his spine. Ilya tears his gaze away and focuses on Ziah, stepping around her so he can see her face.

Her expression is blank, her silver gaze fixed on the Lazaret. He calls her name again, and when she doesn’t react, he waves his hand in front of her face. She doesn’t blink, and her eyes do not move to follow the motion of his hand. Neither of which are good signs. Non-responsiveness can be a precursor to a seizure. He'll have to get her back to the beach, onto solid ground.

“Ziah, can you hear me?” he asks.

“The ocean,” she whispers. She steps forward, stopping just at the end of the dock, her toes dipping over the edge of the last plank. “She’s… gone.”

“Ah, erm.” Ilya glances over his shoulder, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the dock, crashing against the shoreline. “The ocean is right there. Right where it’s always been. See? No worries. Now, let’s… let’s get away from the water, okay? Back onto solid ground.”

He tries to guide her back, away from the water. Ziah grips his arm, fingertips digging into his bicep. “She’s gone,” she gasps, still looking at the Lazaret. “Where is she? _Where is she?_ ”

“Who?” he asks, hopelessly confused. Was this a magic thing? He’s never seen her like this.

She hisses, a soft _ah_ , and her hand flies up to press at her chest. Her jaw works silently, mouth parting around unspoken syllables, and he watches her face contort with pain with a growing panic. Her second hand grips him and she sways, resting her full weight against him for a brief moment before her knees buckle and she pitches forward. Ilya grabs her before she can fall into the ocean, arms wrapping around her waist and _yanking_ , and they end up sprawled on the dock. Ilya scrambles up at once, rising to his knees and leaning over Ziah, who is staring at the sky with wide, terrified eyes. A sickening feeling sours in his gut.

He’s never seen her frightened.

She lifts a hand toward him, and he takes it at once, holding it tightly. “Ziah,” he urges, leaning over her. “Ziah, what’s happening?”

Her gaze flits to him, and her eyes go strangely flat. After a moment, blood begins to trickle from her nose, running down the corner of her mouth and hugging the curve of her jaw before dripping onto the dock below. Her chest lifts in a shallow breath, all while that empty gaze remains fixed on his face.

“Shit,” he hisses. “ _Shit_. Ziah—Ziah, if you can hear me—can you hear me?”

She doesn’t reply. Doesn’t acknowledge him. Doesn’t even fucking _move_. He checks her pulse, her breathing, but her vitals are fine. Her hands are shaking, but she hasn’t gone rigid, so seizure is out. There’s nothing he can do here on the docks. He’ll have to get her somewhere safe, examine her there, see what he can do. But where?

His first thought is Mazelinka’s, but Mazelinka’s house is halfway across the city, which leaves—

The shop. A ten minute walk from the docks. Twenty if he takes the back alleys.

He’ll have to run, then.

Decision made, Ilya slides his hands under her back and knees, lifting her in his arms. He adjusts his grip on her until her head lolls against his shoulder. “Hold on, darling,” he tells her, and starts running. The raven circles above them, silent except to caw whenever he considers turning onto a certain street as a shortcut. The further he gets into the city, the more he can feel her blood soaking into his coat and shirt, right above his heart.

Halfway to her shop, he sees a purple snake winding down the street, heading toward them. _Faust_ , he thinks, absurdly, inexplicably relieved. Asra’s snake. That was its name. Immediately, a sharp burst of pain throbs behind his eyes, staggering him. He tightens his arms around Ziah as the pain drives him to his knees and squeezes his eye shut. He takes a shallow, harsh breath, and forces himself to look up, blinking past the spots in his vision.

“Faust,” he calls out. The snake lifts its head at once, the rest of its—her—body coiling underneath her. When she sees them, she flicks her tongue and begins to slither toward them, somehow looking more worried than before, if a snake even can be worried. Ilya winces and shakes his head, trying to fight the throbbing pain in his head, like some pressure in the inside of his skull is about to burst. “No,” he says, hoarsely. “No, Faust, go back. Tell Asra—tell him we’re coming.”

Faust tilts her head, then flicks her tongue and turns back, going the way she came. The raven caws above them, loud and insistent, and Ilya swears as he forces himself back onto his feet. Ziah’s eyes are still open; he doesn’t know if she’s blinked the entire time she’s been in his arms. She’s still breathing, albeit shallowly, but her nose is still bleeding.

He doesn’t know what any of it _means_.

He takes a deep breath, trying to soothe the ache in his burning lungs, and pushes himself to keep going.

When he turns onto her street, panting, the shop’s lantern is already lit, light spilling out onto the street. Asra stands in the doorway, a dark shadow curled around his shoulders—Faust, then. Ilya takes another deep breath and moves down the alley, half-running, half-staggering. Asra holds the door open for him, expression pinched and unreadable, and shuts it behind him. “The back room,” he says, tone brooking no room for argument. Ilya nods and follows him into the back room, pushing past a beaded partition. The card reading table and velvet stools had been pushed to a far corner, and replaced with a pile of blankets and an absurd amount of throw pillows.

Ilya kneels, gently lowering her onto the blanket pile. Asra kneels on her other side, whispering a soft curse under his breath. Ilya chances a glance to look at him. Asra’s expression is cracked open, betraying a horror and vulnerability Ilya has never seen from him. Ilya’s chest tightens as he watches Asra bow over Ziah’s prone body, hands moving to cradle her face between his hands. “Ziah,” he says. “Ziah, listen to me. Wherever you are, whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. I need you to come back, okay? I need you to _forget_.”

His thumbs glow as he brushes them over her temples. “Forget, Ziah,” Asra whispers, his voice cracking. “Forget. _Please_.”

In that moment, Ilya has the distinct feeling that he is watching something he shouldn’t be. Like he is an unwelcome observer, intruding on an intensely private moment. He looks away, swallowing hard, and focuses on the patterns in the wallpaper. When he looks back, Asra has sat back on his haunches, hands resting in his lap, and Ziah’s eyes are closed. Asra takes a breath and grabs a tea towel, neatly folded and set aside, and starts to wipe away the blood on her face.

He’d been expecting the blood, then. He had known this would happen. 

That’s, mm… concerning. But Ilya is currently more concerned that Asra had, more than likely, wiped Ziah’s memories. And if he had known Ziah would be like this, then, presumably, this has happened before, and Asra has been able to wipe memories for a while. Between this and the blood magic ritual, which Asra had never explained to him, he’s quickly realizing that he has _no idea_ how powerful Asra is, which is, frankly, terrifying.

“So… you can manipulate memories,” he says. Asra closes his eyes, a silent answer, the only one he needs. Ilya’s laugh is short, but sharper, bitterer, than he had expected. “That’s a new party trick. You know, I came here looking for you. Looking for answers. And of course, you avoided me.”

“I know,” Asra says.

Ilya leans back against the wall, arms crossing reflexively against his chest. “If this hadn’t happened, would I ever have found you?”

“No.” He opens his eyes, pinning him with a single somber look, his eye color reminding Ilya of springtime belladonna. “But we’re here now, Ilya. What’s holding you back?”

Ilya clenches his jaw. “Did you take my memories of that night?”

“No.”

“ _Liar_.” The accusation bursts out of him before he can stop it. His hands ball into fists before he takes a breath and relaxes them, running one through his mop of hair. He leans back against the wall, his head thudding against it with a dull noise.

Asra watches him, eyes cold. “I don’t remember anything about the night of Lucio’s death, except finding Ziah. All I remember about that night is pulling her from the fire and taking her back to the shop.”

Of course. How—convenient.

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling his lips curl back in a derisive sneer. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

“I know.”

Ilya lowers his hand, staring blearily at Asra, who stares at him for a few more moments before returning his attention to Ziah. Ilya sits back, biting his lip as he watches Ziah breathe, her hair spread out over the pillows like those statues he sees in some parts of the Temple District, the ones with halos behind their heads.

“She’ll be all right?” he ventures at last.

“I don’t know. I’ve always been there when this happened. I’ve never…” Asra’s throat jerks as he swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Asra takes a deep breath. “Upstairs,” he says. “Top floor. There’s a dresser with a box full of incense sticks. If you could bring a jasmine stick back here… she finds it calming.”

“Jasmine. Got it.” Ilya pushes himself to his feet, turning toward the beaded curtain. He parts it and moves forward.

“Ilya,” Asra says. Ilya freezes, his heartbeat—steadied, now, almost recovered from his desperate sprint from the docks—starting to race again. He turns back and sees Asra staring at him. His hand is clasped in Ziah’s, their fingers intertwined, and Ilya’s chest throbs at the sight.

“Thank you,” Asra says. Faust unwinds from his shoulders, lifting her head to rest atop his own head, parting his hair. She flicks her tongue at him.

Ilya swallows. “Well. I—I couldn’t just… it was…” He stops, blinking, and tries again, giving Asra a sharp nod. “Of course.”

His first thought, when he climbs the spiral staircase that leads to the rest of the house, is that he has never seen the rest of Asra’s home before. The night he and Asra had—well. It had been in the room where Ziah is… recovering, and that had been the extent of his exploration of the house. The upper floor is cozier than he’d expected. Lots of colors, as bright and varied as his magicians’ wardrobes. Potted plants ring a beautiful pinkish-red couch, right next to a phonograph, of all things. An enormous Prakran rug covers most of the hardwood floor.

He doesn’t linger to take it all in. He has a job to do, after all.

The attic bedroom is somehow even more cramped and cluttered with furniture and a frankly absurd amount of pillows, but the ceiling is tall enough that he doesn’t need to stoop to avoid knocking his head on any stray ceiling beams. A Milovan ebonwood dresser (which is _absurdly_ expensive, how had they gotten their hands on it?) is pushed against the far wall, carrying an assortment of trinkets, the largest of which is a box full of various incense sticks in labeled jars. He fishes one from a jar labelled _jasmine_ and goes back downstairs.

Ziah still isn’t awake when he returns, incense in hand. Asra takes it and stands, crossing to the card-reading table shoved into the corner, where a ceramic lotus flower rests atop purple cloth. He sets it in the middle of the flower, lights it, and immediately returns to sit cross-legged by Ziah’s side, taking her hand in his.

The jasmine makes his head hurt, almost as badly as the pain that had driven him to his knees earlier. It makes him think of the palace gardens at night, for some inexplicable reason. He tries to reach for the memory, but the glimpse of it fades away, leaving a throbbing migraine in its place.

Asra does not say anything for a long while, and eventually Ilya clears his throat. “Well,” he says, shifting his weight. “My work here is done. She’s in good hands with you. So I, I—I should—I’ll just be going, then.”

He turns, ready to go and pace the streets until he exhausts himself, knowing damn well he won’t be able to get a lick’s worth of sleep until he knows whether or not Ziah will be all right. Before he can leave, Asra says: “Stay.”

Ilya stills. His heart races under his breast, a flush rising on his cheeks. He lowers his head, staring blindly at the hardwood floor, not quite willing to turn and look at Asra, to see if he had heard him correctly. “I, uh. If that’s what you want? I thought you two might—erm, that is…”

“Stay,” Asra says again, a simple request. Ilya inhales through his nose and turns, kneeling by Ziah’s other side. He risks a glance at Asra, but he’s focused solely on Ziah, both of his hands clasping her limp palm. Ilya feels a tremble run through his hands and fists them in his lap, glancing down at her, at the discarded, bloody tea towel. When he looks back, Asra is leaning over Ziah once more, one hand holding hers, the other smoothing back the baby hairs at her temples. His expression is utterly blank, but his eyes…

Ilya has always, always thought Asra was difficult to read.

But the anguish in his gaze as he looks at Ziah is unmistakable.

Asra, he realizes now, had been difficult to read because he had never wanted _to be_ read. He had never wanted Ilya seeing him like how he is now, open and vulnerable and in pain.

The thought stings more than it should.

As if he can sense his stare, Asra looks up and meets Ilya’s eyes. “I don’t think she’ll be waking up anytime soon, but she’s stable. Let’s bring her upstairs. Do you want some tea?”

“Do you have any coffee?” he asks. When Asra shakes his head, Ilya sighs. “Well, all right then. Which one of your teas has the most caffeine and also gets rid of headaches?”

Asra’s expression softens, his lips quirking up. “Headache? Ah. No, I have something better. If I may?”

Ilya regards him for a moment, then nods. Asra presses his fingertips to Ilya’s temples, and immediately a cool, soothing sensation washes over him, overpowering all else. A few moments later, Asra withdraws, and the headache goes with him. Ilya stares at him, hoping desperately that his expression doesn’t betray his wonder.

“How do you _do_ that?” he asks.

“Magic,” says Asra. He starts to gather Ziah in his arms, letting her head loll against his chest. 

“Right, but, but _how_. Is it a muscle relaxant? Does it relieve the stress on the nerves—?”

“Ilya,” Asra says. Ilya closes his mouth, feeling a flush bloom across his cheeks, but Asra only smiles, small and irritatingly distant. “It’s magic. Can you bring the incense?” He gets to his feet and grabs the lotus flower holder, then follows Asra up the stairs, watching him place Ziah on the couch he’d seen earlier. Asra strokes her cheekbone, his touch lingering, and a lump forms in Ilya’s throat. Asra looks at him from over his shoulder, then gestures to one of the wooden chairs at a fragile-looking dining table. “Could you stay with her? I’m going to make some rice pudding. Her favorite. You want some?”

Ilya nods, pulling the chair to the couch’s side after resting the still-burning incense on the dining table. He wants to hold her hand, to reassure himself that her heart is still beating, but he keeps his hands in his lap. She’s obviously with Asra, after all, and—well. He probably wouldn’t be welcome. He feels enough of an intruder already.

He listens to Asra clink around in the kitchen, pulling out various ingredients and spices. It is several long minutes before he finally returns, three bowls of rice pudding balanced in his arms. Asra puts her bowl on the phonograph, where usually a record would go. Ilya takes his and swirls it around with his spoon, but doesn’t talk. Asra takes a moment to pull over the second dining chair and sits, his gaze lingering on Ilya. Ilya looks away, flushing.

After a minute, Asra takes a deep breath. “I’ve been afraid to ask this, but I have to do it. What happened?”

“Well, that’s a story.” Ilya crosses his ankle over his knee, balancing his bowl of rice pudding on his thigh. “I was leaving the Rowdy Raven, and I saw her walking away. I called out to her, but she didn’t reply. So, I decided to follow her, see if she was all right, but she never responded to anything I said, she just kept walking. Eventually she made it to the docks, and spouted off some nonsense about missing the ocean.”

Asra blinks. “Missing the ocean?”

“Yeah. Something like…” he pauses, trying to think. “‘The ocean,’ uh, ‘she’s gone, where is she, she’s gone.’ Something like that.” He peers carefully at Asra, then, trying to decipher whether or not he actually can make sense of that. Asra stares at him for a long time, eyes wide, before he looks back at Ziah and sighs, dropping his head to stare at the bowl cupped between his hands.

“She had a familiar,” he finally says. He lowers his hand, and Faust—Ilya hadn’t even noticed her—lifts her head from the hardwood floor, slithering up his forearm and curling around his bicep. Asra lifts his hand absently, stroking her under the chin. “Her name was Tiamat. She could breathe air, but she had to live in saltwater to survive. She… disappeared. Before the fire. I haven’t been able to find her since.”

“Familiar,” Ilya repeats. “Like you and Faust, I suppose.”

Asra looks up with a small smile. “You remember Faust?”

Faust’s tongue flicks out, almost triumphantly. He must truly be exhausted if he’s attributing emotions to a snake. Ilya inclines his head, offering a brief smile that soon fades into seriousness. “Could… could this Tiamat be dead?”

“She probably is.” Asra looks pained at the admission. “But… I don’t know. I don’t want to write her off so easily. She and Tiamat were close. Closer than Faust and I might ever be, to be honest.” Faust lifts her head to stare at Asra, who shrugs one shoulder. “You know it’s true.” He scratches her chin, and Faust slides up his arm to coil around his shoulders in long purple loops. Asra refocuses on Ilya. “I hope Tiamat is still out there. For Ziah’s sake. I’ve never seen what happens to a magician whose familiar dies. I’ve never heard of it ever happening.”

“So you think she was talking about Tiamat when she asked where the ocean was?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of.”

Magicians. His head is starting to hurt again—he _really_ needs to sleep. Ilya eats a spoonful of rice pudding. When he’s swallowed, he says, “Right. Well. After that ocean bit, she just… collapsed. Her nose started bleeding, and she became unresponsive. So I brought her here.” Ilya pauses. “I should probably tell you, she was staring at the Lazaret before this all happened.”

Asra’s expression clears, and he looks back at Ziah, his face unreadable. “Which doesn’t make sense,” Ilya says, watching him, “because I was _also_ at the Lazaret. And I would’ve remembered her, presumably, unless someone took _those_ memories, too.”

But even as he says it, he knows in his heart of hearts that it _does_ make sense. It explains why he had felt so comfortable with her, so at ease, so willing to push the boundaries. It explains why he sees her and feels as if he has known her for years. But there are holes in his memory, places where everything seems sewn up so neatly he wouldn’t even have realized something was missing if he hadn’t thought about it.

A chill runs through him. What else is he missing? Had he known, instinctively, that nothing had added up? Had that been the true reason he’d returned to Vesuvia? He’d thought it was to confront Asra, but… maybe it had been for another reason.

 _Damn it_.

He watches Asra stare at Ziah. His expression is one that Ilya has never seen before. Well, no, that’s not right: Asra had never looked at _him_ like that, with a terrible mixture of longing and pain naked on his face. His rice pudding remains untouched between his palms; Ilya has almost finished his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unable to think of anything else to say. 

Asra doesn’t look away from Ziah. “For what?”

“What, do you want a list?” he asks, offering a cavalier grin. Asra looks up, frowning slightly, and Ilya sighs, scraping his spoon against the near-empty ceramic bowl and wishing he had a Salty Bitter or three in his system, still. He is _not_ drunk enough for this conversation. “I made a lot of assumptions about you. About us. Pushed when I should have listened to your signals. I’m sorry for that.”

Asra lifts his gaze to Ilya’s. He swallows, and Ilya finds himself watching the line of his throat before he turns his gaze upon the wallpaper, feeling his cheeks heat.

_Also, I kissed her. And she kissed me back. Do you know that, I wonder?_

_What would you think if you did?_

He doesn’t think Asra would be angry. He’s only seen Asra truly angry once—when he discovered something that had to do with Lucio and the Lazaret. Ilya had stopped him before he could do anything drastic, but he hadn’t shown up to the palace for days afterward, and Lucio had alternated between pouting and annoyance and adolescent anger. Ilya had tried to find out what that discovery was, but Asra had been tight-lipped about it, and eventually Ilya had just given up.

Still. It’s not something he wishes to witness ever again.

He leans back, turning his head to regard the back of the room, and finds a longcase clock tucked away in shadow, its hands pointing to 4:15 in the morning. They’d been here for almost an hour. He looks back at Asra, who is wide awake, though Faust’s eyes are closed, her head resting atop Asra’s, clearly asleep. “How long does it usually take for her to wake up?” he asks.

“This is the longest it’s ever been,” Asra says, turning back to Ziah. Ilya worries at his lip and leans back in his chair. He eventually coaxes Asra into eating his rice pudding, then takes their bowls to the sink, leaving Ziah’s bowl where Asra had left it on the phonograph. He turns on the tap, removes his gloves, and takes some nearly-gone bar soap that smells like lemon and eucalyptus, of all things, before beginning to wash the bowls.

Asra calls him back from the kitchen fifteen minutes later. Ilya drops everything, pausing only to dry his hands on a clean tea towel before rushing back into the central area of the room. Ziah is sitting up, her face shining with sweat, her gray eyes bloodshot. Asra sits beside her, letting her lean against him. She doesn’t even see Ilya as she lifts her hand, caressing Asra’s face. His chest tightens at the sight, almost painfully.

He’s jealous, he realizes. He wants to be the one touching Asra’s face, and he wants Ziah to look at him the way the way Asra is looking at her. How—how juvenile. How _ridiculous_. He swallows, averting his gaze, listening as Asra asks her about the last thing she remembers.

“This evening,” she says. “We had our leftover swordfish steaks for dinner. With the paprika. Not my best culinary choice, by the way.”

That draws Ilya’s gaze. They hadn’t moved, but Asra’s smiling, now, and it’s heartbreaking. He sighs, mutters something Ilya can’t hear, and ducks his head to kiss her palm. Ziah turns, just slightly, and spots Ilya immediately.

“Julian,” she breathes, and to his surprise, she smiles, lips quirked just so, an expression that almost exactly mirrors Asra’s smile. Asra’s staring at him too, his arm wrapped around Ziah’s waist. “It seems I owe you my life. Again.”

“What?” He shakes his head, offering a wide, jovial grin that feels hollow even to him. “No. No, you don’t owe me anything. I just—it’s what anyone would’ve done, really.”

She glances over her shoulder at the longcase clock, then looks back at him. “You should stay,” she says. “It’s too late to go to Mazelinka’s.”

“No,” he protests immediately, “I’ll just—I can find an inn, it’s really not any trouble—”

“Stay,” she says again, tone firmer than before, brooking no room for argument. He closes his mouth, swallowing, and his gaze slides to Asra. Asra rests his cheek on Ziah’s shoulder, watching him with hooded eyes, and gives a nearly imperceptible nod. His knees turn to jelly, then, and it’s all he can do to stay upright. He meets Ziah’s gaze again and nods, his voice failing him, and her grin makes her eyes crinkle in the corners.

She really does have a lovely smile. Crooked teeth and all.

“Great,” she says. She pats Asra’s cheek and sways forward, lifting her bowl of rice pudding gently off of the phonograph. Asra murmurs something to her, something about reheating, but she shakes her head. “Not yet,” she tells him, then turns to Ilya and says, “You can take the bed upstairs. Asra and I will stay here. I’m too comfy to move, anyway.”

“The couch—?” he asks, blinking. It’s barely large enough for both of them. “No, please, I can take it. It’s _your_ bed.”

“And you are _our_ guest,” she argues. “Please?”

“That couch won’t hold you both. It won’t be a problem for me,” he tries. Ziah’s smile turns a shade wicked.

“The couch can definitely hold us both,” she says, almost a purr, and it reminds him of when she’d watched him with hooded eyes and said _did I say you could move_? Ilya feels his cheeks heat as he tries to think of a response to that and comes up empty.

“Take Faust,” Asra says, saving him from the need for a reply. “There’s a velvet pillow under the hammock in the corner. That’s where she likes to sleep.” When Ilya nods, Asra reaches up to unwind Faust from her place around his shoulders. Faust’s tongue flicks out, almost sleepily, but she allows herself to be pulled away, and Ilya watches as Faust twist herself into a neat coil. Asra holds her out to him and Ilya takes her, holding her in both of his arms.

She’s… much larger than she looks.

Faust lifts her head, opening one ruby-red eye, and her tongue darts out to flick at his chin. “Yes, yes, hello to you too,” Ilya mutters. Faust rubs her head under his jaw and then tucks it away, under the rest of her body. Ilya swallows and looks back at Ziah and Asra. “Well. Thank you, both of you. Good night?”

“Good night,” Ziah says. Asra only smiles.

“Thank you, Ilya,” he says. “For everything.”

Ilya’s tongue turns dry and useless in his mouth. All he can do is nod, wordlessly, and turn for the spiral staircase. As he climbs the stairs to the attic, he hears Asra murmur, “You want to try reheating this on your own, or do you want me to help?”

The gas lamps are still lit in the attic, so Ilya is easily able to find the indented velvet pillow and carefully lower Faust onto it. The snake makes a sound that almost seems like a heaving sigh, her head still tucked under her body, and doesn’t move again.

He still feels like an intruder in a stranger’s home as he takes off his boots and waistcoat and overcoat, leaving him in a loose tunic and trousers. He sits on the bed, which is just a mattress set on top of a _very_ large slab of wood and shoved into the corner rather than a true bed, and stares at the small window across the room. It gives a beautiful view of the moon, really, and the little garden in the back.

A beautiful house. No. A beautiful home.

He swallows the lump in his throat, pushing thoughts of how Ziah and Asra had looked at each other from his mind. They make each other happy. That’s what matters. He has no right to either of them—never did, really. He shakes his head, running his hand through his hair, and turns to fold his clothes and set them at the foot of the bed.

Once undressed, he slips under the covers of the bed—long enough to fit his entire frame, to his pleasant surprise—and falls asleep after another hour of tossing and turning.

— — —

When he wakes, the pink fingers of dawn are just stretching across a gray sky. He sits up, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at the cold sweat on his brow, trying to shake the image of a swarm of red beetles from his mind. Just a nightmare. Nothing else.

He dresses in silence, careful and slow, and manages to steal down the stairs without waking Faust. He pauses at the landing of the second floor, unable to keep himself from watching the two prone figures on the couch. Gray light spills over the room, giving everything a dull, muted color. All he can see of them is Asra’s back and their hair—blue and white inextricably intertwined.

Ilya smiles, if a bit wistfully. He’s—well. He’s glad they have each other. That’s all he wants, in the end: for them to be happy. All he’s ever wanted, truthfully, for both of them.

He shifts his weight, turning to go, and sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He hesitates just a second too long, because he hears his name, whispered in the gloom. When he turns, Ziah has lifted her head, squinting at him. His legs are rooted to the hardwood floor, his eye pinned by her silver gaze. Her awakening makes Asra stir.

“Ilya,” Asra slurs. Ziah moves, grunting as she tries to maneuver around Asra’s lanky form. Ilya swallows, his gaze flicking between them both. He should leave. He should—he should go. Now. They have each other. That’s… that’s enough.

But his will dissolves like mist in the sun when Ziah finally manages to free her arm and holds out her hand toward him. Without really thinking about it, he turns and walks toward them. Ziah smiles at him, lowering her arm so it drapes across Asra’s middle, resting her cheek over his heart.

“Leaving so soon?” she whispers. It’s so early, he doubts she’ll even remember this conversation once she wakes up properly.

“Didn’t want to overstay my welcome,” Ilya says, keeping his voice low. She frowns at that, and so does Asra, surprisingly. Ilya clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I… I’ve decided I’m going to try and find out what happened, that night with the Count. My memories—I have to _know_.”

“We’ll help,” Ziah promises. Asra only watches him. Ziah grabs Ilya’s right hand and lifts it to her face, turning her head to kiss his bare palm. Ilya’s breath catches and his eye widens, shifting to Asra immediately, only to find Asra watching him, his lips quirked at the corners. Ziah releases his hand and settles back against Asra’s chest, her hair spilling out behind her, the shade of it almost purple against the reddish tones of the couch.

Ilya has the sudden, inexplicable thought of wondering what her hair would look like braided.

“G’night,” Ziah sighs, her eyes slipping shut. Ilya swallows again and steps away, nodding to himself. He turns toward the kitchen, Ziah’s kiss reminding him that he had left his gloves there, but Asra catches his hand. Ilya blinks and glances down, hardly daring to breathe. Asra’s eyes are like indigo in the pre-dawn light.

“Be safe,” Asra tells him. He squeezes his hand. “No self-sacrificing.”

Ilya swallows, lifting his free hand in a mock salute. “Aye-aye.”

Asra _hmm_ s and lets him go, turning his body on the couch, curving closer to Ziah. Ilya goes into the kitchen and retrieves his gloves, but his hands shake too badly for him to actually put them on. He ends up hunched over one of the counters instead, biting his lip until it splits. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and forces him to pull on the gloves. The gloves steady him, and he manages to cross the room to the staircase without once looking at the two magicians on the couch, both of them dead asleep once more.

The sky is almost pinkish-orange when he steps out onto the street. A new dawn. It’s fitting, he thinks, in a poetic sort of way. Ilya glances at the door behind him, then turns and walks down the street, leaving the shop behind.


	17. tread softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> contains spoilers for book x. finally, nadia shows up. not nsfw, but very sensual.
> 
> pairing: asra/mc  
> warnings: lucio

They wake Sunday morning to sharp rapping on the door. Ziah groans, trying unsuccessfully to open her eyes, when Asra shifts underneath her cheek. “Got it,” he mumbles, pulling himself away. She almost rolls off the couch when his steady presence disappears underneath her. Instead she groans, snuggling deeper into the cushions, inhaling deeply, every muscle loose and relaxed. She smoothes her hand along the fabric, relishing the warmth that lingers in his absence.

She hears the creak of a window opening and looks up, blinking her eyes open to see Asra standing at the window. Chandra sits perched on the sill, cooing as Asra runs his fingers through her feathers, utterly silent. She glows in the dawnlight, feathers almost luminescent. Ziah blinks again, eyes still bleary and sleep-crusted, and forces herself to turn onto her back and sit up, rubbing at her eyes. By the time she lowers her hands, Chandra has left, turned and hopped off the sill with a coo. Asra looks over his shoulder at her, expression twisted into something anxious. A letter is in his hand.

“Nadi needs to see us,” he says. “A carriage is on its way right now.”

“What? So early?” She twists, glancing over her shoulder at the longcase clock. Its wrought iron hands are pointed to 6:55 in the morning. After a moment, she looks back toward the staircase, where Julian had stood not a few hours before.

She hopes he’d gotten back safely.

“I know,” Asra says, leaving the letter on the counter and crossing the distance between them. He sits on the edge of the couch, next to her. “But Nadi wouldn’t be sending for us if it wasn’t important.”

“Very well,” she mutters. “I’m up, I’m up.”

They only have time to brush their teeth before someone is pounding on the door downstairs. Asra exchanges a look with her, then pulls her close into a hug. “Just let me get something first,” he says. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

So she goes down to the carriage, where a guard—who she recognizes as the rabbit guard, so many days ago—nods stiffly to her, then helps her in. Asra joins her in five minutes, adjusting his bag as the guard closes the carriage door behind him. “What did you get?” she asks.

Asra sighs, opening his bag and pulling out two things: a glass flask full of water, and a satchel half-full of an odd-smelling black powder. “Salt water and dragonlily ink,” he says.

“What’re they used for?”

Asra takes them gently from her, returning them to his bag with utmost care. His brow is knotted, and he looks out the window for a brief moment, lips turning down. When he meets her gaze, his eyes are dark and shadowed. “Protection,” he says. “The most powerful kind there is.”

She shivers.

After a moment he takes her left hand in his, thumb running over her knuckles. She winces, unprepared for the dull ache of pain the pressure causes, and he notices. “Sorry,” he says. He passes his hand over hers, hovering rather than touching; the pain vanishes.

“Better?” he asks. She nods, leaning toward him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He sighs, the sound of it almost shaky. He reaches up to press his hand over the side of her neck, palm resting over her pulse point.

“You’re frightened,” she whispers.

“A little bit,” he admits. “I wasn’t expecting this summons. Before we get to the palace, Ziah, I want you to remember something: there are eyes and ears everywhere. You never know who might be listening. So... be careful. Okay?”

She nods, and he sighs, the tension in his shoulders bleeding out, a little bit. He tilts his head, resting his cheek on the crown of her head.

When they reach the palace, the walls are weeping a scarlet aura. It is constant now, and thick, and almost overwhelming. Ziah cannot take her eyes off of it, even when she steps out of the carriage and stands still in the courtyard. Asra climbs out of the carriage as well, coming to a stop by her side.

“You see it too,” he says. She nods, speechless, and he takes her right hand, threading their fingers together. “Good. Stay with me, Ziah.”

“What magic is this?” she asks.

“Nothing good,” Asra says. She squeezes his hand, and he looks up at her, lips curving into a wan smile.

“Ziah! Asra! There you are.” Portia, entering from a door tucked into the shadows of the palace. Red bleeds from under her feet in scarlet footprints, though she doesn’t seem to notice. “Milady’s waiting for you in the dining hall.”

“Lead the way,” Asra says.

Portia clasps her hands in front of her and nods, setting her jaw—just like Julian, Ziah thinks—before turning on her heel and taking them through the palace. When they reach the dining hall, Nadia is already dressed for the day despite the hour, though her hair is in a simple plait rather than any ornate style. Platters of food sit before her, none of them touched. She’s staring at a folded linen square, her hand pressed to her forehead.

She looks up at their approach, a wan but warm smile breaking over her face. She sits up, hand dropping to rest in her lap. “Ah. Ziah. Asra. My most esteemed travelling magicians. I wish to apologize for the early hour, especially since you returned home so late. I trust your rest was not disturbed?”

“Not at all, Nadia,” Asra says. Nadia gestures to the chairs at either side of her. Asra sits at her left hand side; Ziah sits at her right.

“Please, help yourself,” she says. Asra begins to load his plate at once, looking utterly at ease. But Ziah is seated facing the painting, and the red eyes—the same red as the aura that had clung to the palace’s exterior walls—seem fixated on her, hot and hungry.

“What is it you needed from us?” Asra asks.

“Ah. Straight to the point. Very well.” Nadia leans forward, pinching the corner of the linen cloth between two manicured fingers, and lifts it up and over, revealing the contents within. Ziah tears her gaze away from the painting and leans forward. A crushed mass of red sits square in the middle of the linen, oozing viscous fluid. She counts six spindly legs, and a wing.

“A beetle,” Asra says.

“In our last conversation, you estimated that the swarm would be at Vesuvia’s gates within a handful of days. It has been one day, and Pontifex Vulgara reports that their estate has been overrun with these creatures,” Nadia reports, eyes narrowed. “Procurator Volta says her estate is much the same. I have not yet heard from Praetor Vlastomil, or Quaestor Valdemar, but the reports are all the same: the beetles are coming in on the eastern winds of the Scintillant Waste.”

Asra carefully touches the corner of the linen cloth, bringing it closer to examine with narrowed eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, Ziah senses movement. She looks up, only to see that the goat’s eyes in the painting have shifted, focused on Asra’s back. Her hand tightens on her fork.  _You shall not touch him,_  she thinks.

The eyes shift, refocusing on her. She smells the stale air of desert winds, burning her nostrils. _You’ve said that before, and that didn’t work out too well for you, either, little witch._

A chill runs down her back, making her straighten in her seat. Little witch. Where has she heard that before?

“Ziah? Ziah!”

She blinks, coming back to herself, looking over to see Nadia regarding her with open puzzlement in her gaze, and a hint of concern. Asra is also staring at her, eyes narrowed and brows drawn together. Nadia’s gaze flits to the painting, and her expression sets into one of grim understanding. She lifts a hand, and two servants step forward, ever ready to follow her command.

“I want that painting out of my sight,” she says.

“Where shall we put it, my lady?”

“The attic. The dungeons. I don’t care, so long as it is somewhere I will never have to look upon it again.”

The servants bow and quickly work to unhook the painting and take it down from the wall, carrying it out of the room. A sense of bristling, furious disbelief goes with it. Once it is gone, Ziah releases her held breath, and Nadia smiles at her, a slight quirk of her lips that accentuates the warmth in her gaze. “Better?”

“Thank you,” Ziah murmurs. She meets Asra’s worried eyes, giving a slight nod, and he relaxes, offering a small, gentle smile. After a moment he folds the cloth back over the crushed beetle and sets it aside.

“You are most welcome. I admit I was not fond of it, myself. I am relieved to see it go. Now, shall we eat? You have touched nothing since your arrival.” Ziah huffs a laugh and reaches to serve herself until her plate is full of food. Nadia watches her until Ziah begins to eat, then leans back into her chair, satisfied.

“So,” she says. “It appears my dead husband is not as dead as we would like.”

Asra chokes on a laugh, coughing into his fist. Nadia watches him with open amusement as he catches his breath, clearing his throat. “Coincidentally,” she says, “or perhaps not, there are rumors that his wing of the palace is cursed. I should like to see this for myself.”

Asra’s amusement fades, his expression shifting into something wary and concerned. “Are you sure, Nadi?” he asks. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Nonsense.” She regards him, curious. “He is potentially connected to the return of the beetles and possibly the red plague, as you have previously mentioned.  _If_  he is indeed alive, even as some… goat ghost, I wish to see it myself.” She smiles. “And I shall have nothing to fear with both of you by my side.”

“All right. But when we do this, I don’t want us going in blind. There’s… ah. I know.” He glances at Ziah, then leans forward, gesturing for Nadia to lean toward him. Ziah’s eyebrows raise as he whispers something in her ear for quite a while.

“Interesting,” Nadia says, pulling back. “It shall be done. While I have the servants prepare the room, would you or Ziah like a bath drawn? To freshen up, perhaps?” She cannot quite hide the look of disgust as she looks at their clothes, and Ziah can’t blame her. Asra, at least, has worn his clothes for three days straight. She isn’t much better.

Ziah glances at Asra, who shrugs, and then says, “We can bathe together, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Mine is the finest in the palace. Please, feel free to indulge yourselves.”

“Thank you, Nadia,” Ziah says. Nadia’s red gaze slides to her face, and her amused expression softens into something tender, affectionate.

“Think not of it, dear Ziah.”

They finish eating, and Asra doesn’t speak a word of whatever he’s planned with Nadia. Ziah says nothing, instead focusing on getting as much food as she can stomach. Once breakfast is over, Nadia summons Portia to take them to her personal suite of rooms and prepare a bath for them. Ziah says nothing, does nothing, until Portia leaves them alone with a wink and the door is locked behind her.

“I know that look,” Asra says. “What is it?”

“I don’t appreciate you shutting me out,” she replies.

“Shutting—oh.” His brows draw together, slightly, eyes narrowing in worry. “Ziah…”

“What did you tell Nadia? What is the plan? Don’t leave me in the dark, Asra.”

“I’m sorry.” He draws close to her, running his palms down her arms and taking her hands in hers, careful not to put too much pressure on her left knuckles. “I was asking her to set up preparations for… when Lucio reveals himself. I don’t sense anything right now, which means he’s either hiding or… gone. But he’ll come back. With the right bait.”

“And that is?” she asks. He hesitates, just long enough for her to realize he means himself. Her jaw works in silence before she finds her voice. “Asra, do you have any idea how dangerous—”

“I do,” he says, lifting her hands to kiss her knuckles. His gaze is intent on her face. “Believe me, I do. Which is why I’m going to ask you to let me put sigils of protection on you. With the salt water and dragonlily ink you saw before.”

Ziah inhales, slowly, and exhales. “Do you have these sigils, too?” she asks. “Or Nadia?”

“I do,” he says. “And I don’t think he would hurt Nadia. But I’ll put protections on her, too. Can’t be too careful.” His eyes narrow, something dark crossing his features, but he leaves that thought unvoiced. Ziah squeezes his hands and steps back, reaching up to undo the ties on her clothing. 

While she undresses, Asra rummages through his bag, carefully pulling out the ingredients and finding a small, empty bowl on one of Nadia’s dressers. She watches him mix the two ingredients, pinching the dragonlily ink into the bowl, where it darkens and thickens into black fluid.

“Do you feel watched?” he asks, not looking up from his work. He continues to mix in the ingredients until the small hand-sized bowl is brimming with the ink.

“No. Do you?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he’s not here.”

She glances down, spotting her fractured reflection in the water. Her face is smeared with dirt, and her hair is tangled. Flushing, she cups water between her hands and rubs it over her face, then finger-combs her hair. She’d looked like that this entire time? Why hadn’t he said anything?

Asra brings the bowl to the tub, setting it on the edge before undressing and stepping into the tub with her. The water is waist-deep, sloshing against her belly as he moves toward her, framing her face in his hands. “Let’s freshen up first,” he says.

“What scent do you want?” he asks. “Let’s see, we have… jasmine, rose, soapberry lavender, sage and grapefruit, wow, I’m not even halfway done.” She smiles and he laughs, pressing his cheek to hers, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close against him. “Honey and coconut, rosemary and peppermint—”

“That one. The last one.”

She feels his smile and he ducks his head, kissing her shoulder, before reaching around her for the shampoo bottle. He is careful, running the soapy cloth over the scars on her back, though the sensation of them being touched is enough to make her tremble. He whispers assurances and apologies, and soon enough pulls the cloth away. Her shoulders sag, and she leans against him, closing her eyes.

She says, “Do you know how—what happened to me? To my back?”

Asra hesitates. She looks up to see him looking away, gaze averted. “You never told me,” he finally says.

Oh. Well. She swallows her disappointment and instead leans against him, trying to relax as he shampoos her hair. The air is pleasantly balmy, a steam rising up from the water, making sweat bead on her forehead and temples.

“By the way,” she murmurs, “you could have told me there was dirt all over my face.”

“Hm?” Asra asks, still focused on massaging her scalp. “Oh. Hah. I don’t see that kind of thing when I’m with you.” He grabs a pitcher, fills it with bath water, and pours it over her head, repeating until all the suds are out of her hair. She turns in his arms, pressing against him, pushing him against the edge of the tub.

“What do you see, then?” she asks, eyebrows quirking.

He hums, fingertip tracing the bow of her lips, and he smiles when her breath catches. “Your lips always hypnotize me,” he admits. “But your eyes—I can’t escape them. It feels like… I’m being swept away by the ocean current. The rest of the world stops mattering when I’m with you.”

Her eyes widen, slightly, but he is kissing her before she can reply. She responds at once, hands moving to grip his arms as she melts into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. A low sound escapes her throat as he winds his fingers into her hair, tilting her head so he may deepen the kiss. She presses forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders, wanting him closer,  _closer_. 

She cannot get enough of him. He touches her constantly, and she touches him just as often. But she still craves his touch, is  _starved_  for it, as if she has gone centuries without any human contact and is only just now trying to make up the difference.

Asra sits on one of the half-submerged steps, pulling her into his lap. His aura brushes against hers, tentative and fragile, and she meets him halfway, sending as much of her magic as she can to twine around his. Colors burst behind her eyelids, warmth spreading through her as their intertwined auras run over her skin like water.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, breath catching. When she curls her fingers under his chin and lifts his head, his eyes are wide, hazy, and a flush is spreading steadily over his cheeks. He pulls his hands free from her hair, framing her face between his hands instead. His thumbs brush over her cheekbones, and he huffs a laugh through his nose, eyes dancing in amusement.

“You do have dirt all over your face,” he says. She rolls her eyes, and he breaks into true laughter, little  _pfhaha_ s of delight that warm her heart. “Here, come on, I’ll wash your face.” He grabs a cloth and wets it, gently rubbing the dirt from her face. When he pulls the cloth away, he kisses each brow and then the space between them.

“Better?” she asks. He pulls back, his free hand smoothing down her arm.

“Beautiful as always,” he says, eyes lidded, mouth curved into a gentle smile.

“Incorrigible,” she mutters, getting up from his lap. He laughs, and her smile betrays her amusement. “Here, I’ll wash your shoulders. Which scent?”

“You pick.”

She takes a bottle of rose-scented body soap and squirts it into her hands, rubbing the cream between them until it lathers. Then she approaches Asra, who stands once more, water lapping at his hips. She holds his gaze as she washes him, hands sliding easily over smooth skin and muscle. Occasionally, parts of his body light up in bluish-white lines and sigils under her touch. Whenever that happens, she lifts her gaze to his, eyebrows raised, a silent checkup, and he nods. A signal that he is doing well.

“I feel like you’re washing the defenses away from my soul,” he says eventually, after she has moved from his back to his chest. Ziah looks at him. He’s watching her intently, lips parted slightly, eyes lidded and dark purple. She trails her hands down to his chest, thumbs circling his nipples, and his breath hitches. She leans forward, pressing her mouth to the corner of his lips. He stills.

“Good,” she whispers against his skin. He shivers. She leans closer, mouth drifting up the curve of his jaw to brush against his ear. “That’s how I want you, Asra. Flat on your back, tender, open… and mine.”

He swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing, and she lowers her head, pressing her mouth to the pulsepoint of his throat. He whispers her name, the syllables trembling out of him, like a sigh on the breeze. She closes her eyes and stays pressed close against him, listening to the race of his heartbeat. The ocean’s waves are a distant roar in her ear, dulled by the palace walls and Asra’s presence.

“I’m already yours,” he tells her, voice hushed. “Everything I am, everything I have. It’s yours.”

She nods, dipping her head so she can kiss him again. Her mouth slants over his, slippery and slick, and she watches his eyes slip closed. Her hands lower and curve around his body to rest on his back, fingers spreading in the space between his shoulderblades, tugging him close. Asra breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and tilts his head back. She leans forward at once, peppering his throat with kisses, relishing the sighs that she pulls from him. They echo in the bathing chamber, but she knows no one else is listening.

These sounds of his are hers alone.

Her hand lowers to rest on his hip, and Asra shakes his head, just slightly, splattering droplets of water everywhere. “Just—I like being close, like this, for now,” he murmurs, every word a kiss against her collarbone. Ziah nods, turning her head and kissing his temple, tasting the sweat of his skin, brought about by the heat of the water.

Eventually he pulls away with a reluctant sigh, but then he looks at her and his eyes crinkle into slits of delight with his smile. “What?” she asks. His smile widens.

“You’re shining,” he says. “Like a raindrop.”

She feels a flush spread over her cheeks. Ignoring it, she says, “I still need to wash your hair.”

“Oh? So generous.”

It does not take as long to wash his hair as his chest. Rather than waiting for a pitcher, Asra simply dunks himself into the deeper edge of pool, emerging dripping wet, his hair plastered to his face and his body glistening in the sun. She laughs at the sight and he pulls her toward him, until the water is at their sternums. His arm wraps around her waist, and he smiles at her. She’s expecting the kiss, but it does not leave her any more prepared when he leans forward and captures her lips.

“You’re feeling affectionate today,” she says when they part, breathless.

“You’re surprised?” he asks, eyes lidding as he looks up at her. “Hm. I’ll have to make this the new normal, then.”

She laughs, brash and loud, when he darts down, kissing her neck and other sensitive areas that make her squirm and shove half-heartedly at his chest. Eventually Asra pulls away, and his smile fades as he looks at her, shifting into a worried look she knows well.

“What is it?” she asks. He kisses her cheek.

“I need to put the protections on you now. If that’s all right.”

She nods, and he guides her back to the shallow end of the pool, hands clasped in hers. He bids her to stand still, then turns and retrieves the porcelain bowl full of dragonlily ink. “Okay,” he says. “You may feel a cold tingling. That’s normal.”

She nods, and he dips two fingers in the ink. He touches her collarbone, dragging his fingers down in a long, winding line that seems to make sense only to him. He paints these protections—lines, yes, but also complex sigils that reminds her of the symbols she has seen on Julian’s body and Muriel’s—into the skin of her arms, her shoulders, her inner wrists. When his touch pulls away, what feels like a blast of cold hits her where the ink rests, and she shudders, looking down. The lines flare bluish white and then fade to nothing, as if they were never there.

“How long do these last?” she asks.

“Usually a few hours, a few days at most. You have to keep recharging them for them to keep their power, or else they fade away entirely. You can make them permanent, but it takes a  _lot_  of magical energy. Tends to wipe you out for a little bit afterward.”

She thinks of Muriel’s sigil, glowing on his back, and Julian’s on his throat. But before she can mention them, Asra speaks. “Okay. One more.”

He dips his thumb in the ink—it has almost been used up, now—and presses it to the apple of her throat. She raises her eyebrows, a wordless question, and he meets her gaze, brows drawing together. “He likes to go for the throat,” he says.

“Lucio?”

He nods, thumb beginning to draw another sigil. She can feel his magic working, settling into her skin, as powerful as she’s ever felt it. She waits until his hand pauses to lift her own palm, curling her fingers over his wrist.

“Did he hurt you?” she asks.

He makes a face, mouth twisting. “Did he—? Well. Near the end, he was too weak to do anything really bad.”

“That didn’t answer my question, Asra.” He stays silent, and she swallows. “Where was I? Why wasn’t I with you, to stop him?”

“You were… somewhere I couldn’t follow.”

“ _Where_.”

“Ziah.” Pain flashes over his features, creasing in his brow and in the corners of his eyes. “Mizi. I’m not doing this to hurt you, or keep you in the dark. I promise. I just—I don’t know how you’d react. I’ve told you before, and I’ve lost you, every time. You’re stronger now, but… you _just_ had an episode last night. I don’t want to push it. What if you react badly and I can’t bring you back? What if I lose you forever?”

“That’s not your decision,” she says, even as she feels her own argument melting away. She had had an episode last night, caused by something unknown, something to do with the ocean. If Asra thought this counted as deliberately seeking out one of her triggers...

He laughs, low and rough. “No, it’s not. But—” His gaze flits to a far corner of the room. “That’s what you said the last couple times, too.”

She touches his cheek, and he looks back to her, eyes lingering on her face, drinking in her features. She leans forward, pressing their brows together. “Later, then,” she says. “You will tell me where I was. Why I was not here to keep you safe from him.”

His exhale shakes. “Okay,” he agrees. “Okay. We’ll try.”

She nods, and his jaw clenches, concern flashing over his face before he takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He breathes again, in and out, and pulls away. “Let me get the towels,” he says. “Nadi’s waiting for us.”

He climbs out of the bath and she watches the way water clings to and runs down his body, making him gleam in the sunlight, as bright as any sun. She gets out as well and Asra returns to sweep her up in a towel, wrapping it tightly around her. He kisses her cheek, and she looks down at the tiled floor, fighting a smile and failing. They towel each other off, and Asra hands her a semi-translucent robe that falls to her knees. 

“Looks like our clothes are still being laundered,” he says, looking apologetic even as he shrugs on his own. She can see the warm glow of his skin underneath the sheer fabric that drapes across his torso. She slides her hand under her hair, freeing it from its place tucked underneath the collar of her robe and feeling it settle just above her shoulders.

“You look beautiful,” she tells him. He smiles and steps toward her, into the circle of her arms.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he says. She rolls her eyes, scoffing, and he laughs, eyes lidding, lips curving into a teasing smile. “You look  _especially_ beautiful when you’re rolling your eyes like that.”

“Incorrigible,” she mutters again, and he laughs, reaching for her right hand, intertwining their fingers. With his right hand, he reaches up, brushing his fingertips over her collar and the curve of her throat, left exposed by her robe. When his magic lights up, glowing under her skin, his shoulders bow with his sigh of relief.

“We’ll be fine,” she tells him. “I won’t let him touch you.”

His gaze snaps to hers, his brows drawing together for a brief instant before his expression smoothes over and he smiles. “I won’t let him touch you, either. Promise.” He lifts her right hand, kissing the inside of her wrist, and pulls away to open the door.

She stares at him, but his gaze is intent, serious. After a moment, he holds his hand out to her, and she lets herself be drawn into his current, reaching back and clasping his hand. Hand-in-hand, they leave the suite and make for Lucio’s wing.


	18. death, ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziah finds out. Book 13 spoilers.
> 
> pairing: asra/ziah  
> warnings: attempted suicide, depictions of drowning

She does not go inside the Lazaret. The island’s hold upon her does not call her to its decaying walls, its crumbling towers of stone blackened by ash and soot, never cleaned. She has no desire to push ajar the rusted gate and step inside.

There is pressure building behind her eyes, curving up from her forehead to the top of her head. Black spots swim in her vision. She sways, and Asra steadies her, hands warm on her arms. “Are you all right?” he asks. His voice is hushed, but it breaks nonetheless. She looks at him, and he swallows. “Any—any pain? Dizziness?”

“I must do this,” she says, instead of answering. His brows furrow, and he takes a breath.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere,” he tells her. “Even… even here.”

Ziah pulls her hand from his and starts down the shoreline. Her stomach churns. At any moment, she thinks, she could be sick. Her visit with Nadia had had the same effect, but Nadia had not let her go any further than the beach.

The call upon her soul—it beckons her further into the island, and when she follows, so does Asra. His hand is lax in hers, clammy. His breaths are short, shaking; once, she thinks, she would have stopped, comforted him, cupped his face in the palm of her hand until he smiled and kissed her palm.

But the tension in her chest grows only tighter, a knot around her lungs that makes it harder to breathe with every step.

She walks into the forest, half a mile from the Lazaret. She walks into the darkness that lingers under the afternoon sun. She walks into the shadows that have wreathed this island for three years, and she does not walk alone.

Asra says nothing as she takes them through overgrown paths, once worn into the ground but now nearly hidden by lack of use; she ducks under low-hanging vines, pushes past brambles that catch on her clothes.

In the end, her feet take her to a small clearing by the sea, and when they finally stop, Asra’s breath rushes out of him. She does not look to him, and he offers no explanations. Instead, she looks around. The beach sand is freckled with black, but the clearing itself is empty save a single jagged wooden post, snapped in half, the pointed end sticking out of the ground at an angle.

This is where she needs to be. But… there is nothing here. Nothing except the grass and the wooden post.

“What was this place?” she asks, softly.

“I don’t know,” Asra says. His eyes are wet, gleaming. “I’ve never… I don’t know.”

Ziah swallows hard and steps forward, Asra’s hand loose in hers, on the verge of falling back down to his side. She lets him go; Lucio’s voice surges in the back of her mind, screaming about justice, but his words are distant. Faint. Unimportant.

She touches the jagged wooden post—

 

> _NO_
> 
>  
> 
> hands on her arms, dragging her from the sea, blood dotting the sand, red, everywhere
> 
>  
> 
> _NO_
> 
>  
> 
> open sores, blood on her lips, bleached masks, beaks curving like Death’s own scythe
> 
> watching helpless from the sea, screaming, anguish, agony
> 
>  
> 
> _MY CHILD_
> 
> _MY CHILD_
> 
> _MY CHILD_
> 
>  
> 
> carried—dragged—away, too weak to walk, crawl, _asra forgive me_
> 
> _naṣāru ar-ta’kaas_
> 
>  
> 
> **_ZIAH_ **
> 
>  
> 
> (she is alone.)
> 
> (she is alone.)
> 
> (she is alone.)

 

She stumbles away, legs giving out underneath her, but before she can hit the ground—Asra, catching her, chest against her back, arms tight around her, nose against the curve of her throat and shoulder, breaths wet and hitching. He slowly lowers the both of them to the ground, until he is kneeling in the seagrass and she is limp in his arms.

“You remember,” he whispers.

She is shaking. She is cold. That desperate, terrible scream—the wail of a creature in terrible agony—haunts her, replayed over and over, a constant loop. Her chest hurts, bursts of pain that reverberate through her whole chest until it feels her body is on fire. Her head hurts, throbs of agony that reverberate through her skull, up to the top of her head, a pressure that will not ease.

 _Naṣāru, ar-ta’kaas._ Protector, I am ready.

She cannot breathe. Asra’s face still rests on her shoulder. “... your headaches became worse,” he explains, and she feels his tears wet her shoulder. “Once I tried to explain everything, and I almost lost you for good—”

She watches him pull away from her, kneel on the beach, picking up a handful of sand stained with ash. She cannot hear his words, but when he looks at her, he is crying. The sight should be painful—and it might be, she thinks. Is his grief the cause of the pressure in her head, the pain in her heart? She does not know.

She has not moved.

The world feels distant, detached.

Asra returns to her. He says something, but the words are garbled, muffled, silent, never spoken. She stares at him, uncomprehending. Her heart is pounding, despite her slow, even breaths. She is still, quiet, despite the roar of the ocean in her ears, the screams in her mind.

_ZIAH_

_MY CHILD_

Her breaths stutter, and she feels something cold run from her nose, dripping down her lip.

Asra’s shoulders shake, and she feels him lift his head, hears his sob. “ _No_ ,” he gasps, and suddenly he is there, in her swimming vision, tears running down his red face. He touches her blood, and his shoulders slump, bowing under the weight of the world. His hands grip her arms and his head bows, sobbing, his words breaking as he struggles to speak through his tears. “Mizi, please, not now, I can’t—I can’t—”

_(Mizi?_

_Do you not like it?_

_Ah. I… hm. No, it is fine.)_

His fingers dig into her arms for an instant before his hands fall away. He is sobbing, a supplicant prostrate before her, head bowed nearly to the ground, one hand clutching at his heart, the other hiding his face from her. She stares down at him. What is this feeling, she wonders? This—distance? Detachment?

“I can’t,” Asra gasps through his fingers. “I can’t. Not again. _Please,_ I don’t want…”

He continues, pleading, begging, all of them drowned out by the ocean’s deafening call. She stares out at the sea—calm and azure, waves gently rolling onto the beach before pulling back, disappearing into the sea.

A woman had died here, three years ago. She had died away from the sea; she had been taken unjustly; she had had something waiting for her, ready to bury her in the ocean’s depths where she belonged.

That something is still waiting for her.

She stands. The world is cold, and distant, and dreamlike. She leaves Asra in the grass, stumbles onto the beach, speckled black with ash. Blood drips from her nose, onto the collar of her shirt. She hears Asra call for her, panicked, but his voice is distant. She hears the sea. Its closeness eases the ache in her chest, the longing for home.

Saltwater laps at her ankles. She wades deeper, up to her hips. “Tiamat,” she whispers. “Tiamat, it’s me. Where are you?”

Nothing answers. The water laps at her ribs, her chest, her collarbone. She swims deeper, chest too tight to breathe, tasting salt and copper on her lips. Her head aches, and black spots swim over her vision. Her panic only rises.

_(Then come out to sea, child. One last time.)_

Another memory, another ghost, for a woman who had died away from the sea. She feels herself sink, further and further, feels the tethers binding her to this world snapping and unraveling and falling away. This world is not hers; this body is not hers; this life is not hers.

She is the light that remains after one has closed their eyes to the sun.

She is not a woman, she is a creation, an empty, hollow shell stuffed full of false memories. A blank-faced doll whose features Asra had stitched together by hand. A block of stone, a lump of clay, formless until he had shaped her from the ether. Is that why this Tiamat does not answer her? Is she not real, is she not that woman, is she simply a false copy, a thing that had thought herself human—

_(You are Tiamat?_

_Yes. And you are Ziah, my newest acolyte._

_The others said you’d eat me._

_Eat you? Pah. You are too young, all bones and no meat. You’d give me indigestion.)_

The water is cold against her cheek. She closes her eyes and lets herself sink, lets the sea close around her. The call of the ocean is finally silent, and her mind is blissfully blank. The tightness in her chest loosens, escapes her body as bubbles from her nose.

Her feet touch the sandy bottom of the sea when she feels warmth chase away the ocean’s chill on her cheeks. She feels sunlight-bright, feels a mouth press against hers. Her lips part, but water does not rush in—air fills her, light and buoyant, easing the pain in her lungs, a pain she had forgotten was there.

She gasps. An arm wraps around her waist, yanking her up, pulling her from the depths that had snared her. Her ears pop, and she realizes—he will take her from here, from her home, from where she belongs. She fights, bubbles streaming from her mouth and nose, saltwater filling her mouth and stinging her eyes; he tightens his hold on her, and they break the surface.

She coughs, retching water, her lungs rejecting what was never meant to live within. When she can speak, she screams, voice cracking, breaking, until all she can manage are breaths that burn her lungs. The echo of her shouted pleas linger in the air around them, caught between waves and sky: _where is she—where is she—WHERE IS SHE—_

“She’s gone,” Asra says, gasping, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. His arm is tight around her waist, the water churning around them, torn between their separate wills. She wants to go back under, go back _home_ ; he wants to keep her above the surface, away from the silence and the dark. His eyes are red, irritated by tears and saltwater. “She’s gone, I’m so sorry, she’s _gone,_ she’s not coming back. Mizi, I’m so sorry. She’s gone.”

She screams her grief to the sea, and the water rushes over them, pulling them under. She struggles, but his magic wraps around her, keeping her within the cage of his arms. When their heads break the surface again, his breath rattles in his chest. She coughs out more water, rips the sea from his control, makes it leaden around her legs.

She will sink. She will know silence. She will know peace, at last, at last. She will die alone but this time she will die in the embrace of the sea.

A wave crashes over them, but she does not sink. Asra tangles his fingers into the wet mass of her hair, presses his forehead to hers, his magic weaving through the cracks of hers and breaking its control, ice splitting apart crumbling rock. His hands are warm as the sun as he takes the ocean from her, rips away her chance to amend the wrong done to her.

 _Let me go,_ she thinks. Salt stains her cheeks. Salt is salt is salt, whether from her tears or from the sea (but what is the difference?). _Let me go let me go let me GO PLEASE PLEASE SWEET PLEASE_

“Mizi,” Asra says, begs, “don’t, please, not again—”

 _Not again._ Those words catch in her mind, breaking through the water’s deafening pull.

_Not again._

How many times has he pulled her from the sea? Her mind is a dark cavern, a bottomless well, holding nothing but an agony as suffocating as summer storms—but she is certain, somehow, that he has swum to the bottom of oceans to pull her up, again and again and again.

That thought is a knife in her soul, slipped between her ribs so sweetly she had not noticed its presence until now.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs.

It is a mantra he takes up, wept against her chilled cheek. It takes some time for the words to break through the fog, to be heard over the roar of the ocean, to be felt around the knife that has twisted itself into her heart. She stares through him, and when she hears thunder rumble above them, she lets go. She releases her control on the water, and Asra wraps his arms around her, uses the ocean’s wave to carry them, exhausted, back to the ash-stained shore.

Once they are on the beach, they collapse in the sand, resting on their sides. Asra clutches at her, hands hot against her back and nose pressed into her throat, right where her pulse thrums under her skin. His aura bleeds out from his body, tinged with panic and desperation and relief. Their hearts race together, and Ziah feels a ghost of his own anxiety, but it is dulled, distant.

The world seems so small, so far away. She is adrift, lost at sea, without a tether to bring her back to shore. She is a spectator, watching the world pass around her. She has felt this before; she has been detached from herself and from the world; she has been trapped in the depths of this ocean.

Someone is clinging to her, someone is sobbing. She is alone. Her mind is clear; her chest is emptied of all grief, of all longing. A doll whose face is once more wiped blank and ready for her defining stitches.

She feels a spectator to the world, not a participant.

She does not know when his weeping slows enough for him to speak; she does not know when she hears his words. His confession, whispered, a burred voice catching on the vowels: “The day you died was the worst day of my life.”

Thunder booms again, louder this time, but he only holds her closer, molding himself against her, fitting his body against her curves and her hollows, until there is no empty space between them. She can feel his heart against her chest, how his racing pulse matches her madcap heart’s beat perfectly.

“There was a storm that day,” he tells her. “A hurricane, a tornado, a hailstorm… no one can agree what it was. But it destroyed a quarter of the city, the flooded district. I tried contacting you, but you didn’t answer. So I went looking for you. And when I came here, I found Tiamat in the center of the storm.”

_(MY CHILD, MY CHILD—)_

He exhales, shakily, and slowly sits up, pulling from her. She feels herself floating in the sand, staring up at sky slowly darkening with thunderclouds, water lapping at her temples, submerging her ears. He touches the water, and it becomes sand. She no longer floats. He shudders, bowing his head again, his hands lifting to sift through dripping hair. “I—I couldn’t calm her down. I asked her where you were, and she said—”

He covers his face, then squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on his wrist, a terrible wail slipping half-stifled from his mouth. He curls forward, pressing his other hand to his heart, fingers clutching at the dripping fabric. She watches, distant, only half aware of the world around her.

He calms himself, sucking in ragged, gulping breaths, the imprint of his teeth red and inflamed on his wrist. He looks up at her, tear-stains shining on his cheeks, mixing with the water still dripping from his hair. Despite his misery, despite his pain, his face is seraphic, beautiful as the sun.

 _My sun,_ she thinks, with distant, detached fondness.

“Tiamat—she wouldn’t stop screaming. The storm wouldn’t end. I had to beg her to stop. I had to scream at her until I lost my voice. And when it did end, she was gone.”

She says nothing, but he is quick to sound reassuring: “I don’t know if that means she died, but—she’s gone. And I was left behind, so I… decided to look for you. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe you were really gone. You were—so strong. It seemed so unfair that the plague would be what took you.”

He falls quiet, looking down at his hands. She waits, aimless, cold, adrift. Her mind is empty and silent. Lucio’s rantings have quieted at last, though she does not know how long that has been so—if perhaps he had been cast from her mind hours ago, and his absence had simply been ignored.

“This,” he says, swallowing hard as he gestures to the sand around them, “this is all I found. This was all that was left of you.” He hiccups, tears spilling down his cheeks, and distantly she is aware of the warmth on her own cheeks, the burn in her own eyes. Tears run down her face, hugging her jaw, dampening the collar of her shirt. Asra squeezes his red-rimmed eyes shut, sniffling, then opens them and looks at her. “I dug until my fingers bled, Mizi. All I could find were charred bones and ash.”

His confession is gasped out between tears, between seizes of grief that rob him of his voice. He explains a secret banquet, held two months before the last Masquerade, a banquet meant to save Lucio from death, but had been used for her instead. He tells her of the bargain he’d made to bring her back: half his heart in return for her life.

She stares at him, silent, her heart pounding in her ears, throbbing below her chest, pulsing in her fingertips and behind her knees. She feels dizzy, drifting, dreamlike. He never looks her in the eye; the highest he dares venture is her hands, limp and sand-crusted, folded over her heart.

“Oh, Ziah. What must you think of me now? I thought I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want you relive dying alone in the Lazaret. But now… I think I was also afraid. Not just for you. Afraid to face the true cost of what I’d done.”

He looks at her, eyes welling with tears, which run down his face in crystalline rivulets. His hand shakes when he lifts it toward her, a silent plea. She does not move when his ash- and sand-stained fingers brush her wet cheek. He shudders, shifting to kneel before her, still weeping. “But… after everything I did… you’re here. You’re alive.”

She loves him, she knows, with the abstract certainty one knows mathematics or the cycle of the seasons, that spring follows winter and winter predates spring. But is her love genuine? Is it hers? Or is it a byproduct of his heart in her chest? Does she love him because he had wanted so _desperately_ to be loved?

Asra loves her, and he loves her vividly, wholly, fiercely. She feels it every time their skin brushes; she senses it every time their auras touch. But if she holds the second half of his heart, is it truly her own love for him—or is it a reflection of his deepest longing, for his love to be returned? A mirror turned upon itself?

 _Do you know what would happen to me if something happened to you?_ he’d asked her in the cave.

There is a myth from Aransa: a sculptor falls in love with his creation, and the creation, knowing none but him, returns his love. And with that myth comes the riddle: is their love true or false?

(She has always thought the answer was _false_.)

“Say something, please,” Asra says. His thumb touches the skin between lip and nostril and comes away bloody. His shoulders shake. “Let me know I haven’t lost you again. Please. Mizi, if I have to take your memories again—please, I don’t… I can’t…”

Perhaps the riddle’s answer is true; perhaps it is false; perhaps it is both.

She no longer feels real, and that is her only certainty.

Everything else feels… wrong. Hollow. Faint. Ephemeral.

It is that detachment that has her lift her hands, cup his face between them, and wipe away the tears that have dried on his cheeks. He turns into her touch, his hands lifting to hold her wrists in place, prevent her from pulling away. Her thumbs stroke the swollen skin under his irritated, puffy eyes, now dry, and Asra sniffles at her touch.

_(You? Break my heart? Never.)_

She does not know from which fragment of memory that thought had come—but it is a lightning bolt to her heart. It is a shard of glass in her lungs. It contracts in her chest, folding in on itself, squeezing painfully tight, robbing her of her breath. The pain brings her back into her own skin; she sits up, moving to kneel in front of him. They kneel together in the ash and dust and sand, holding each other for all it is a hollow comfort.

“Oh, Asra,” she breathes, her breath hitching. Tears prick her eyes. “I am so sorry, sweet. It must have been so hard.”

Asra’s expression crumples, and he slumps forward, a puppet whose strings have been cut. She is there to hold him, to bear his weight, to tangle her fingers in his wet hair and press her lips to his temple. She can feel the beat of his heart against her lips.

“I missed you,” he rasps. “So much.”

“I don’t remember everything,” she whispers. “There are only… snippets. Threads. The puzzle’s picture is yet unfinished; the tapestry is still unwoven. I’m sorry.”

His breath shakes, and it is a long time before he answers. “You’re here,” he says. “That’s all… that’s all I want.”

Ziah kisses his temple, closes her eyes, presses her cool cheek against his warm skin.

They hold each other until the tide comes in. Seawater wets their knees, their calves, but she has no urge to drown in its depths any more. His presence silences the howl of the sea; the sunlight-warmth of his skin chases away the ocean’s cold.

It is dusk. They have spent the whole day on this wretched, lonely place.

She will take him from it.

She stands without a word, offers him a hand to help him to his feet. He pulls his hand from hers, watching her with an expression that can only be described as _mournful_. “Are you okay?” he asks. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

He had been sobbing before her, a supplicant begging forgiveness between gasps for breath, and he asks after her welfare.

“I will be honest,” she says. “I do not feel real.”

Asra’s face falls. He reaches for her, hand curving around the side of her neck, thumb pressing against her pulse. Ziah takes hold of his wrist, sliding his palm up to her cheek. “How can I help?” he asks, brow creasing. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she replies. He blinks, eyes turning glassy, and she turns her head, kissing his palm. It is meant to be a comfort to him, but she is uncertain if it works. She looks away. “Come, Asra. I wish to leave this place.”

“Me too,” he admits. He threads their fingers together, slow and tentative, waiting for her to pull away.

She does not. She lets him hold her hand, and together, they make their way back to the gondola. She climbs in, the boat rocking under her weight, and Asra pushes it out to sea before climbing in, steadying their boat with two fingertips dipped in the water.

Still, they guide the gondola back to the docks together. There are others clustered on the beach—setting up chairs, or sitting in gondolas in the harbor, flickering candles set in the center, illuminating picnics and evening dinners.

“Oh. Can we stop for a moment?” Asra asks, softly, as if he expects her to say no.

She nods.

Something whines, the sound piercing the sky, and she watches fireworks burst above the palace, sending showers of multicolored light careening through the air. They crackle and boom, dazzling her, leaving smoke trails in the dark and reflections of light in the water. The reflections make her think of lanterns in the dark, and singing moonflowers in long braided hair, and Asra’s skin shining like gold in the lamplight.

She holds her breath, waiting for the pain, but it does not come. She does not know where these impressions originate, if it is memory or longing or both. But it makes her look at him, only to see he is watching her, his face painted a palette of colors with each exploding firework, vivid against the darkness of the sea.

He offers a slight smile when he notices she has caught him looking, and it is that smile that begins to bring her back. The water that numbs her, keeps her distant from the world, begins to recede.

She wants to reach for him. She wants to hold him close, reassure him of her love, reassure _herself_ that what is in her heart is true, and not a hollow reflection. She wants to feel his skin, the fabric of his still-damp clothes, and know that this world is real.

She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Are you cold?” Asra asks, expression gentling. “Can I warm you up?”

She nods, and he carefully moves forward, sitting on the floor of the gondola. She sinks down as well, slipping from the built-in bench to reach for him. The boat rocks as Asra pulls her into his arms, as she reclines low against his chest, her head resting against his collar, tilted back to watch the sky.

His magic washes over her like warm water, heating her chilled skin. Humming lowly to himself, Asra holds his hand out; she feels her damp clothes dry as the water is wicked from the fabric, following the movement of his fingers, his wrist. He guides the water back to the sea, then holds her, arms tightening around her stomach. “How’s that? Better?”

She nods, and feels him look up, his jaw touching the top of her head. He points out fireworks to her—one shaped like a cat, one that leaves a smoke trail that looks like Faust, one that bursts in a rainbow of color that showers light through the sky. At that one, the other spectators gasp and laugh, and a smattering of applause makes its way through the boats.

“Nadi once told me about the fireworks she saw as a child in Prakra. Every shape, every color, exquisitely crafted by the finest alchemists.” She says nothing; his pause lingers in the empty space between them. Finally, he says, softly, “We should go there someday. Prakra. Or… wherever else you want to go.”

She turns her head, resting her forehead against his throat, tucked under his jaw. “I would like that,” she finally says, a quiet admittance half-spoken into his neck. Asra’s exhale shakes, and she turns in his arms, shifting so that she is lying on her side, resting against him. It gives her room to look up at him, to tilt his head down and make him look at her.

Dazzling color dances across his face as he stares at her, lips parted on a breath. She stares at the shape of his mouth as she lifts her hand, stroking the backs of her fingers down his cheek, tracing its shape. She enjoys how he feels against her skin—soft, warm, comforting. Under her ear, Asra’s heart is beating wildly, pounding in time with her own.

“Ziah…”

“I am sorry,” she whispers. Asra’s face is bathed in a shower of greens and golds and reds.

 _Beauty_ , she thinks. _Beauty, beauty, beauty._

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says, softly. He lifts his hand, still hesitant, and mirrors her own touch—brushes his fingers against the curve of her cheekbone. Her breath hitches and she turns into the touch, sore, salt-stung eyes sliding shut.

“You were alone,” she replies, voice cracking. She sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to master herself before the frayed emotions within her unravel entirely. Asra starts to say something, but she shakes her head, silencing him. “You were alone for _three years._ ”

“Not your fault,” he assures her, immediately, arms tightening around her. “And I wasn’t—I wasn’t alone. I had Faust. Muri.” A beat, as he thinks of what that reply sounds like. “And I had you. Even though you lost your memories, you were still _you._ ”

She does not believe him. Where the certainty of her personhood had lived, there is now an empty hole. She feels a doll, Asra’s most beloved creation, sewn and moulded and magicked to resemble an ancient ghost.

She speaks through barely-parted lips, with eyes squeezed shut. Her words are a quiet, fearful admittance. “You have done so much for me, but I do not know if I can be that woman. I don’t know if I can be… I don’t know if I can be your Ziah.”

“My Ziah?” he asks. He runs his fingers through her too-short hair, then rubs his thumb over the curve of her jaw. “Mizi. Look at me, please.” She obeys, opening her eyes, and he smiles at her, the skin under his eyes wet. He swallows, hard. “There’s no… there’s no _my_ Ziah. There’s only Ziah—there’s only you. And I will—” he catches himself, clenching his jaw tightly before taking a breath. After the thunder from another round of fireworks ends, he speaks again. “And you will always be important to me, no matter what.”

After a few moments’ pause, another whine pierces the sky, and a brilliant firework of gold and white light explodes above the palace, larger than any that had come before it. “Oh,” he says, with a slight laugh she feels but does not hear, “that one reminds me of you.”

Ziah swallows, tasting blood at the back of her throat. She looks up, cushioning herself against his chest. “Is that so?” she manages.

She feels his hands flex around her. “Yeah,” he says. “It reminds me how you’ve always been a light to me. Even in the darkest of times.”

She looks back to him.

More fireworks light up the sky, catching in his hair, giving pearlescent curls different sheens of color. The sky goes quiet, and the rest of the onlookers cheer and clap. The show has ended; the ocean is dark and still beneath their boat. In this new, quiet world, there is only them and the warmth of their tangled bodies.

Slowly, carefully, she turns her hand, resting the backs of her fingers against his face, thumb caressing the skin above his cheekbone. Asra shivers underneath her, but does not look away from her face, does not even dare breathe.

It is that moment in the oasis again—the world holding its breath, bodies still and tense and drenched in the rains she’d summoned. Waiting for her to make a choice, perched on the verge of a decision that is entirely in her hands. Ziah lets her gaze drop from his eyes—they, too, reflect the stars—to his lips.

He wants to love. He wants to be loved.

_(How wondrous you are, Asra. How lucky I am to love you.)_

“You are a light to me as well,” she says, looking at him once again. “Please know that. Keep it close to your heart.” She pulls away from him, sitting up at the bottom of the boat, clasping her hands in her lap. “But I—I find myself still uncertain that I could love you as you deserve. I find myself…” she trails off, looking away, out over the water.

“What can I do?” Asra asks, leaning forward and drawing her eye. “Is it that you don’t feel real? Because you are, Mizi, I promise. Whatever you need from me to help you—”

“That is it,” she whispers. “That is precisely it.”

Asra hesitates, a long moment of silence stretching between them before he says, quietly, “I don’t understand.”

Ziah sniffles, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. She leans forward, cupping his face between her hands. It is unconscionably cruel, this intimacy, for she is about to break his heart.

_(You? Break my heart? Never.)_

“My heart’s sweetness,” she whispers, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “You would set yourself ablaze to keep me warm.”

Asra’s breath catches. His fingers, curved around her arm and against her cheek where he holds her, tremble. “I…” he starts, but he trails off and does not finish. Her heart sinks.

“That is not how I want to be loved,” she tells him, as gently as she can. She lowers her hands, moves backward on the boat, putting more distance between them. Asra’s face is slack, naked in his grief and pain. His eyes are glassy when he turns his head, hiding his face from her. She takes a breath and continues. “That is not how I want you to love. That is not what I want our love to be.”

“Then tell me what you want it to be,” he says, a touch of desperation in his tone. “What we have—”

“I do not even know that what we have is real,” she whispers.

Asra’s red-rimmed eyes snap to hers. “Mizi—”

“I look at you,” she continues, voice wavering but ultimately holding steady, “and I do not think _lover._ I do not think _Asra._ I think creator. I think sculptor. I think Master.” He flinches. She feels sick. “I am sorry I cannot explain more clearly, but I—if I have your heart, Asra, then the love I feel for you may be your own heart’s love for me, turned upon itself.”

He starts to protest, shaking his head. A lump wells in her throat, but she swallows it down. “Can you say that is not true? Definitively?” She waits; he clenches his jaw, pressing his hand tightly over his mouth, silencing any sound he could make. His other hand clutches at his heart. Still he will not show his face to her. “Asra. I am so sorry. But I need time. To think. To process.”

Asra’s breath shudders, and the sound he makes—torn unwilling from the depths of his throat—wrenches at her. She looks away, rubbing at her cheeks, feeling her tears run silent down her cheeks. The world still feels distant; she still feels as if she is floating. She will wake up, and this will all have been a dream.

Asra’s shoulders hunch, and he takes another breath, lowering his hand.

It is a long, long time before he speaks.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Okay.”

Ziah says nothing, biting the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, until the pain is enough to drive away the voice that whispers she is making a mistake. Asra does not look at her as he leans over the boat and touches the water, but she can see the shine on his cheeks, the wet gleam of tears.

In silence, he brings her back to Vesuvia.


	19. a fool for your beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw lads im on a smut kick ¯\\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯
> 
> pairing: ziah/nadia  
> contains: cunnilingus, orgasm delay/denial, subby(?) nadia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon on tumblr wanted nadia/ziah where ziah was the dominant one. post-game, vague timeline. managed to finish this one for nadia's birthday!! enjoy ur birthday smut my love

Nadia is wearing pearls today—a long rope of them, wound around her neck in three loops, the end of the necklace resting against her sternum. That itself would not be remarkable, if Ziah was not picturing Nadia wearing her pearls and  _only_  her pearls.

“You have been quiet, my dear,” Nadia says, still reading old trading treatises that predated the plague, that predated the rest of the world’s abandonment of Vesuvia. Since the Masquerade and the whole Lucio mess, she has put all of her effort into reforming Vesuvia to meet her vision—a university built over the Coliseum, housing for the new orphans who’d lost their parents in the second wave of the plague, relief for the poor, rebuilding the flooded district. She has let nothing distract her from this goal.

Ziah wonders if she could be successful.

She says nothing, slowly crossing her legs at the knee, letting her sheer silk slip slide up her thigh, revealing smooth skin. Nadia looks up at her silence, but her gaze catches on Ziah’s legs. Her expression clears into tranquility, and very calmly she sets aside the treatise she’s reading.

“Oh,” Ziah says, her voice low and husky, “don’t get up on my account.”

Nadia arches an eyebrow. Ziah stands up, slowly, mouth suddenly dry. She crosses the carpeted study on bare feet, watching Nadia’s eyes lid, watches Nadia push her chair back in anticipation. When she reaches Nadia, she straddles her lap, running her hands down the delicate lace sleeves that cover Nadia’s arms to the wrists.

The texture helps ground her. The heat of Nadia’s skin, when she leans forward and kisses her collar, helps remind her that this world is real. That she is not a thing, however lovingly crafted from magic and memory; that she is real, and loved, and in love.

Nadia’s hands settle on her hips, and she shifts, spreading her legs and pushing Ziah to the side, trying to get her to straddle one leg. Ziah stops her, gripping Nadia’s lace-clothed wrists, her nose pressed between two strings of pearls to brush against the skin of Nadia’s throat.

“No,” she says.

“No?” Nadia asks. She already sounds breathless. “Whatever do you mean? Do you not want…?”

Ziah sits back, gently putting Nadia’s hands on the armrests and holding them there. Nadia’s eyes are wide with surprise, her scarlet irises darkened to crimson, her pupils already dilated. “What I  _want_  is you out of this dress,” Ziah confesses, voice low, “and wearing only your pearls. And then…”

Nadia’s eyes lid. Her smirk is slow, lazy, and the way she lifts her chin—almost a challenge. It makes Ziah’s breath catch. “And then?” she purrs, her lips brushing against Ziah’s with the words, each syllable a kiss. Ziah’s heart pounds, and she squeezes Nadia’s wrists, pulling back.

“You’ll find out,” she says, sliding off of Nadia’s lap and pressing against her desk, “if you go get naked.”

Nadia’s smile widens. She looks amused more than anything—she rises with an elegant poise that makes Ziah’s mouth go dry. But like this, barefoot, she is still shorter than Ziah, and Ziah stays tall, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. Nadia’s smile gentles, and she takes Ziah’s hand in hers, kissing her knuckles while holding her gaze.

Ziah follows her into the bedroom, where Nadia disappears behind her divider. There’s another fireplace here, also lit, also with two luxurious armchairs facing the hearth. She turns the one nearest to the divider and settles in, pulls the porcelain bowl full of peaches and grapes into her lap.

It makes her think of that day in Lucio’s suite, splayed over the bed, Nadia and Asra alternating feeding her grapes and chocolate and strawberries. A little over a month ago, and yet it seems a lifetime. She has changed so much since then, since Asra had taken her to the Lazaret three days later and broken her concept of herself down to its foundation stones.

She is so lost in her own thoughts that, though she is staring at the space beside the divider, she does not even hear Nadia calling her until Nadia steps out beside it, a worried frown marring her beautiful face. She is wearing stockings and black lace panties and the lace undershirt she’d worn under her dress—and that sight alone is enough to make Ziah reconsider her  _only pearls_  stance. 

“Ziah.”

Ziah blinks back into herself. “Yes?”

Nadia’s frown softens into a worried look. “Are you all right?”

Ziah looks at the grapes and peaches in her lap. “I am sorry,” she says. “I… feel distant, suddenly. Adrift. It came on suddenly.”

Soft fingertips press against her chin, lifting it up. Nadia leans down, kissing her briefly. Ziah closes her eyes, letting herself float in the sensation of Nadia’s lips against hers, the calming scent of jasmine filling her nose. “Then allow me to bring you back to shore,” she says. She wedges the bowl of fruit between Ziah’s thigh and the armrest of the chair. Then she kisses Ziah again, again, again, until Ziah is arching up and her fingers are tangled in Nadia’s hair and Nadia’s hands are tugging at the ribbon that keeps her sheer robe together—

“Wait,” Ziah gasps, breaking the kiss. Nadia stills at once, and Ziah closes her eyes, breathing through her nose. She focuses on the here and now—Nadia’s hair in her hand, Nadia’s hands warm on her stomach, Nadia’s breath smelling of wine and fruit fanning across her cheek, Nadia’s heart beating out of sync with her own.

She lets Nadia’s presence bring her back to shore, lets Nadia’s touch anchor her in her own skin. She is not a thing, a hollow approximation of a dead woman; she is here, she is real, she is loved, and she is in love. 

And she wants to see Nadia wearing nothing but her pearls and black stockings.

Ziah opens her eyes to see Nadia staring at her, a slight crease between her brows. “Remember what I told you,” Nadia says. Her cheeks color, but she does not look away. “I need you here, Ziah. With me. Please.”

“I’m here,” Ziah promises, taking Nadia’s hands in her own and kissing both of her palms. She grins, feeling her face flush. “Now go get naked. And—you can keep the stockings.”

Nadia laughs, pulling away and giving her a look that sends a shiver of heat down her spine. “Duly noted,” she says, and disappears behind the divider once again. Ziah eats a couple grapes and waits, pressing her legs together, though that does not ease the ache that is pulsing slowly between her legs.

When Nadia emerges once again, it is only in her stockings and her pearls, the strings resting low between her breasts. She leans against the divider, bracing herself on one arm, using her other hand to slowly draw it up her hip—wide, generous, smooth save a few beautiful stretch marks—and toward the center of her body. Ziah follows the trailing of her fingers until Nadia rests them against the delicate curve of her collar, barely noticeable under brown skin pimpled despite the heat.

Ziah cannot speak. Her breath comes slowly, through barely parted lips. She looks at Nadia, and then lowers her gaze, leisurely taking in the sight before her. The heavy weight of her breasts, low on her chest, the left slightly larger than the right; the half-moon circle of wine-red hair that kisses the underside of her navel, travels down in a sparse trail to the dark curls that shield her mound from Ziah’s gaze.

She feels herself grow wetter and bites her lip, crossed thighs squeezing together. Her throat is very dry, and she finds she can’t swallow; she can only stare and marvel.

“Do I please you?” Nadia asks, lowly, still amused.

“Fuck, Nadi,” Ziah rasps. “Yeah. Always.”

Nadia’s eyes lid, and she slowly pushes herself away from the divider, sensual, languid. She walks toward Ziah, but Ziah shakes her head, and Nadia stops, arching an eyebrow. 

“Slowly,” Ziah clarifies. “I want to look at you.  _Fuck._ ” She clenches her thighs together and lifts her hips against that sweet pressure, raising her hand—once gripping the armrest tight, fingertips white against plush fabric—and biting down on her knuckle.

Nadia stops a few feet away from her and lowers herself to her knees, holding Ziah’s gaze all the while. Her breasts sway gently with the movement, so entrancing Ziah cannot look away from them. Nadia clears her throat and, face flaming, Ziah meets her crimson gaze again, shifting to press her back fully against the chair. Her hand goes to the fruit and she picks up a grape, so purple it is almost red, rolling it between her fingers. Nadia watches, and Ziah sees the slender column of her throat move as she swallows.

“I think,” Ziah says, “feeding each other is our  _thing.”_

Nadia looks back to her. “Is that so?” she asks, and Ziah smirks.

“Well,” she says, “there was dessert in this room, and then with Asra in Lucio’s suite…”

As she speaks, she watches Nadia approach her on her hands and knees, hips swaying. There is nothing demure about her movement. Ziah watches her and feels like a prey animal caught in a panther’s sights, which sets a tight ball of anticipation low in her stomach. 

“And then our dream,” Ziah says, cheeks flaming at that memory. Nadia’s sultry smile widens.

Finally, Nadia stops and sits on her heels, so close to Ziah her breasts press against Ziah’s calf. When she lifts her hands toward Ziah’s crossed knees, Ziah reaches out. Nadia stills at her touch, crimson eyes lifting to her, almost pleading. The touch of Nadia’s skin against her bare leg is enough to send a shiver down her spine, enough to make her even more aware of the wetness between her legs.

She wonders if Nadia is so wet; she wonders what Nadia will look like, sitting where she sits now, her legs thrown over the armchairs, open and exposed and beautiful.

Ziah holds up the grape. “Now this.”

Nadia laughs, smile splitting brilliant across her face. Ziah laughs with her, leaning forward, resting the tip of the grape against Nadia’s lower lip. She is lovesick, lovedrunk, real and loved and in love. Nadia bites into the fruit, juice wetting the tip of Ziah’s finger—holding her gaze, Nadia swallows the rest of the grape and licks the wetness from Ziah’s skin.

 _“Definitely_  our thing,” Ziah breathes, shifting in her chair, heat prickling under her skin. Nadia laughs, nipping at her fingertip, sucking it into her mouth and curling her tongue around its pad. Ziah breathes a curse and Nadia smiles.

“I believe you are right,” she says. Ziah drags her wet finger down Nadia’s cheek, leaving a stripe behind. The gleam on her cheek is fascinating. Nadia moves closer, resting her head atop Ziah’s lower knee, looking up at her and resting her cheek against Ziah’s leg. “Now, my love, will you let me taste you?”

“Is that what you want?”

Nadia smiles, slow and sure. “Yes.”

Ziah reaches out, running her fingers through long hair—shaded wine-red at the top, shifting to plum, then brightening to lavender. Her hair is a marvel, just like the rest of her. “Why should I?” she asks, playfully, looking back at Nadia with a smile she hopes mirrors Nadia’s own: smirking and confident and enough to make her shiver.

Nadia does not shiver. But she does turn her head, humming into the tender skin beside and above Ziah’s knees, nose brushing against the hairs growing there. She breathes deeply and closes her eyes, breath warm against Ziah’s thigh. “Hm. Because… it will please you?” She laughs, low and husky, the sound sending thrills down Ziah’s spine. Her next words are murmured but audible. “It has never failed before.”

Ziah feels her face heat, and she swallows, running her hand through Nadia’s hair again, enjoying the feel of the silky strands between her fingers. “Hmm,” she says, pretending to consider. Normally she would not hesitate—Nadia is skilled, and more than once Ziah has fallen apart under nothing more than the curl of her tongue and the pressure of her lips. Her greatest pleasure is giving pleasure to others.

But she has been working all day—all  _week_ , unrelated to the separate birthday celebration her sisters are planning—and Ziah wants… 

She wants Nadia to give up that careful control that is present even now, and let her take care of her. She wants to make Nadia forget about trade treaties and alliances and rebuilding the city; she wants Nadia breathless and sensitive and gasping and—

What had she said to Asra?

_I want you flat on your back, tender, open… and mine._

That is how she wants Nadia. Tender, open, hers.

She sits up, lowering the bowl of fruit to the ground by Nadia’s knees, dusted in fine red hairs. She lowers herself as well, sliding slowly from the overstuffed chair to kneel on the plush carpet. She drapes her arms over Nadia’s shoulders, leaning in to press her lips to hers. Nadia responds at once, lips firm and forceful against hers, and her hands move to knead Ziah’s flesh, the roundness of her hips and her belly.

Ziah pulls back, swallowing, gaze flickering from Nadia’s lips to her gaze. “No,” she says. “Hands behind your back.”

“Ziah,” Nadia complains, but she obeys. Ziah leans back on her heels, running her hands down Nadia’s throat, her collars, her chest; she palms Nadia’s breasts, thumbing her dark brown nipples until they peak under her touch. Nadia squirms, arching her chest, pushing her breasts into the touch.

Ziah pinches them both,  _hard,_  and Nadia gasps, shuddering. Ziah smiles. “You’ve been so busy, Nadi,” she says. “You haven’t taken a break in forever. Give yourself to me. Let me take care of you.”

Nadia watches her through half-lidded eyes. After a moment, Ziah leans forward and kisses her, letting all of her desire and eagerness and love rise up and bleed out between her lips. Nadia moans when she pinches her nipples again, rolling them between her fingers and thumbs, and when Ziah licks at her lower lip she tastes grapes and wine.

She breaks the kiss, and Nadia is left kneeling before her, panting, wide-eyed.

“Let me take care of you,” she murmurs again, turning her head, pressing kisses up her jaw. She moves her hands, lifting one to tangle her fingers in Nadia’s pearls, lowering the other to rest on Nadia’s wide thigh. 

Nadia collects herself; Ziah watches her straighten her back, square her shoulders, smooth her expression. “Very well,” Nadia says. Ziah moves her hand on her thigh, curving it inward, sliding it up soft skin. Nadia sighs and shifts, spreading her legs.

“Nope,” Ziah says, cheerfully. “Not here. Up on the chair.”

Nadia laughs. “You are in a mood tonight,” she notes, climbing up into the chair. Ziah catches sight of her bare ass and looks askance, biting down on her knuckle again. 

“Uh,” she squeaks. “Yeah? I guess so? Why, do you not like it?” 

Nadia’s laugh is shorter this time, but huskier, fully aware of the effect she’s had on Ziah. Ziah takes a deep breath to compose herself and turns around, only to see Nadia staring down at her, hands resting on the armrests. “I did not say that,” she says.

After a moment, Ziah takes another breath and moves forward, her hands resting on Nadia’s knees, then curving under them to lift them up and rest them over the armrests. She leans forward, kissing the folded lines that have creased Nadia’s stomach, and leans back, smiling up at her.

Nadia reaches out, her pearls swaying between her breasts, catching the light. When she touches Ziah’s cheek, Ziah inhales sharply, turning her head into the touch and nuzzling at her fingertips. Then Nadia sits back, flush against the chair, and tucks her hands under her knees, looking at Ziah with an expression that makes Ziah’s mind blank. Her cheeks are flushed in the firelight.

“I am yours,” she says.

Ziah smiles and runs her hands up Nadia’s legs, enjoying the feel of the black stockings under her palms. Leaning forward, she grips Nadia’s inner thighs, running her thumbs over the stretch marks there, and inhales deeply, nose against Nadia’s wet curls. Then she opens her mouth, lips brushing against lips, and parts Nadia’s folds with one slow lick.

Nadia tastes of the sea; she tastes of home.

Ziah enjoys her—licking slow and deliberate, long swipes from her entrance (dipping her tongue inside, sipping from the source) to her clit, flushed and swollen and already out of its hood. She does not enjoy fingers, so Ziah uses her hands to keep Nadia’s legs spread, uses her fingers to trace aimless patterns into soft skin while she pulls gasps and moans from Nadia’s throat.

Ziah closes her lips around Nadia’s clit, sucking gently. Nadia’s hips jerk toward her, almost off the chair, and she lifts her eyes to see Nadia’s head thrown to the side, some of her hair tangling with her pearls, firelight from the hearth dancing over her skin.

Ziah flattens her tongue against the clit, then she dips her chin, passing her tongue over her in long, broad, messy strokes from her entrance to her clit. Nadia’s hand wrenches free from where it had been held down and clasps the top of Ziah’s head, tangling in blue threads, fingers tightening against her scalp.

Ziah stops at once, pillowing her cheek on Nadia’s thigh, and grins when Nadia whines and looks down at her. “Did I say you could do that?” Ziah asks, kissing her inner thigh.

Nadia’s eyes darken, and she smiles—the sort of smile she gives when she is faced with a challenge, a challenge she is determined to conquer. “You did not,” she says. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“Hmm. Perhaps. If you behave.”

“I will do my very best,” Nadia replies, very dryly. Ziah snorts, burying her chuckles into Nadia’s leg, still slung over the armrest. Her skin is very soft. Ziah nuzzles her thigh, then begins to kiss her way back to Nadia’s cunt.

She is slow, deliberate in all her movements, listening to the music of Nadia’s body to deny her—when she gasps at a hard suck, Ziah kisses gently; when her hips lift and press against Ziah’s mouth, she moves away; when Ziah licks and sucks her clit roughly, sloppily, and makes her moan, Ziah gentles her touch. When Nadia’s breath hitches high in her throat and she goes still, legs trembling with finite tremors, Ziah pulls away entirely, leaving Nadia twitching and red-faced and breathing hard.

“Cruel,” Nadia gasps, after Ziah has denied her for the third time. “You are— _ah—_ cruel, my love.”

Ziah licks her lips, smirking up at Nadia, unable to resist her smugness. Nadia’s eyes narrow playfully, and her hand twitches from its prison under her knee before Ziah arches an eyebrow and she stills, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her nipples are tight peaks. Ziah lifts herself up to suck on one, pressing her thumb against Nadia’s clit and rubbing in hard circles that make Nadia jerk.

“Ah,” Nadia breathes out, lifting her hips. Ziah braces her other hand on her thigh, feeling the constant tremors that run under her skin, and moves on to lavish attention on her other nipple. Nadia moans, chest arching into her touch, hips rolling up in a constant wave, seeking more pressure from her thumb. “Ah, Ziah— _yes,_ right there, _right_ _—_ ”

She stiffens, her whole body shaking, and Ziah pulls away for the fourth time. Nadia’s cry of loss is automatic, whining; her head thumps against the unrelenting back of the chair. Ziah watches the muscles in her stomach jump as she bucks against the air in a fruitless search for release. She is left panting and tense in her chair, eyes closed, throat jerking as she swallows over and over. 

Ziah folds her hands under her chin and grins. “You’re so beautiful,” she purrs. She wipes at her chin with the back of her wrist, enjoying the gleam on her skin that results from it. “And delicious.”

“Are you going to tease me all night?” Nadia finally asks, breathless, eyes still closed. The tension bleeds out of her, and she relaxes once again into the chair, muscles going slack. Ziah rests her head on Nadia’s thigh and lifts her hand, rolling her nipple between her fingers, making Nadia moan and swallow hard.

“No,” Ziah asks, lowering her hand. “I’m just waiting for you to ask nicely.”

Nadia’s eyes open to slits and she stares down at her. “Please, Ziah?”

“Please what?”

Nadia swallows, eyes dark. “Please... I would like to come for you. Please let me come for you.”

Ziah can’t stop her shiver at the request, so softly phrased, so sweetly spoken. She smiles up at Nadia, who returns it, if a bit more hesitantly. “Of course,” Ziah says, and draws Nadia’s legs down from their perch over the armrests. Nadia winces, and Ziah sends a wave of healing magic to soothe over-stretched muscles. “Okay?” she asks, glancing back up.

“I am well,” Nadia says, and brushes Ziah’s hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. “I want you.”

Ziah smiles, lifting herself up—Nadia bends over and meets her halfway, kissing her fiercely, breaking it only to gasp as Ziah’s hands grab her hips and tug her to the very edge of the seat. Ziah kisses the inside of Nadia’s knees, then lift them to rest them over her shoulders.

Nadia clutches at the armrests, and Ziah lifts Nadia’s legs and gets to work. The denials have kept her twitching, sensitive; it does not take long at all—Ziah’s finger rubbing her clit as she presses kisses over her labia and occasionally uses her fingers and tongue in tandem—before Nadia comes with her hands buried in Ziah’s hair, her cunt clenching around Ziah’s tongue, her whole body pulsing in time with her release.

Ziah smiles and keeps going, guiding Nadia into a second and third orgasm, until Nadia begs her to stop with a voice gone hoarse from shouts and moans and all other sorts of delicious noises Ziah will never grow tired of listening to. Then, and only then, does Ziah pull away from her, a thin string of wetness connecting her mouth to the lips of Nadia’s sex.

Nadia has sunk into the plush chair, head tilted back toward the heavens, her hair catching a gradient of reds and purples in the firelight. “Are you with me, Nadi?” Ziah asks, standing and leaning over her. Nadia’s gaze is distant, unfocused, but soon enough she blinks and her eyes move to Ziah’s face.

“A moment,” she requests, voice hoarse. She swallows, clears her throat.

“Want some wine, or water?”

“Wine,” she says. Ziah pads over to a pitcher and two goblets left on an end table. She’s still fully dressed—at least compared to Nadia, clad only in pearls and nylons. Her mouth dries at that thought and she pours herself a glass for good measure.

She perches herself on the armrest and gives Nadia her glass of wine, which she downs in seconds, delicately patting at the corner of her mouth with her fingertips. Ziah laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to her brow, shining with sweat. “That good?” she teases.

Nadia smirks, giving her a look from the corner of her eye. “It was acceptable,” she admits, her smirk widening. “I suppose.”

Ziah, laughing harder, presses her hand over her heart in mock woundedness. Nadia reaches out, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her into her lap. Ziah goes willingly, tucking her face against Nadia’s neck, fingers hooking under her pearls.

“You were very good,” Nadia purrs, taking the goblet from her, pressing it to her lips. Ziah shivers and opens her mouth, swallowing two mouthfuls before Nadia pulls it away and kisses her. Nadia’s arm wraps around her back and she leans sideways, resting the goblet on the floor before returning her attention to kissing her breathless.

Her other hand slides between Ziah’s thighs and Ziah moans into the kiss. Nadia pulls away, but moves her head, lips brushing against the shell of Ziah’s ear. Ziah shudders, eyes slipping shut as she begins to rock against Nadia’s hand.

“Now, my love,” Nadia purrs, “how would you like to be rewarded?”


	20. you're all around me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairings: asra/ziah, asra/julian  
> warnings: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr i had a lil character development meme for ziah saying she wrote asra letters while on the lazaret, gave them to julian, and asra found the letters. 4biddenleeches (telanaris on ao3 read her stuff!!!) wanted that in fic format. here u go babe xx

He tries to be quiet as he rises. Really, he does. But he hadn’t meant to stay the night (hadn’t meant to _fall asleep,_ with his cheek pressed against Ilya’s sweat-damp shoulder and his knees against Ilya’s thighs, curled up against him like he was— _don’t think her name_ ) and he isn’t certain what Ilya thinks, now that he has.

Nothing’s changed for him, in the few months since he first fucked Ilya. He’s wanted— _needed_ a distraction since returning from the Lazaret with Ziah’s ashes under his fingernails and saltwater in his blood, and Ilya is nothing if not _distracting_. But the worst part about Ilya is that he’s starved of any affection, and so he’ll make a feast from the scraps Asra deigns to give him.

( _I’ll take what I can get,_ he’d panted out at the shop, on his knees and so, so eager to please. Asra would pity him, if he wasn’t just as hungry.)

It’s predawn morning, and Ilya is snoring into his pillow, naked body still bearing red and purple marks from the sex last night. Asra indulges himself; he leans back instead of buttoning his trousers, gaze roving over the bruises and scratch marks that litter his back. If he’s sore when he wakes up, Asra can give him something to help the muscle aches, but if he knows Ilya… he’ll want the pain.

Losing interest in surveying his own work, Asra turns away, buttoning his trousers, and examines Ilya’s room as he searches for his shirt, discarded at some point last night. He runs a hand through his hair and stands up, flinching when the bed creaks. Ilya startles awake, jerking his head up and looking around the room with wide panicked eyes until he sees Asra.

“Asra,” he slurs, and though his eyes are wide, and his stare direct, they’re still sleep-fogged. He probably won’t remember this when he wakes up later; good, that’s for the best. Asra turns away from him, crossing the room and bending to pick his shirt up off the floor; it had landed pretty close to Ilya’s, he notes with faint amusement.

“Leaving so soon?” Ilya asks, sounding more awake now. Asra fights back a sigh, glancing at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says, not looking at him as he takes his shirt and shrugs it over his head.

“You could stay,” Ilya says, very softly. “Erm. If you want. I, uh, I—I wouldn’t mind.”

Of course not. Feast out of scraps.

“Mm,” is all Asra says as response. “Go back to sleep, Ilya.”

Ilya sighs behind him, disappointed, but Asra doesn’t look back. Not for the first time, he thinks about ending it, putting Ilya out of his misery borne of fruitless hope. He’s told him how he feels—that their relationship (he has to suppress a snort at that, that _this_ —somewhat-amicable interactions accompanied by the occasional hard fuck—is a _relationship_ ), while enjoyable, is a distraction.

He wouldn’t even be here right now if he hadn’t sought Ilya out to keep himself from thinking about Ziah, if he hadn’t wanted to supplant the memory of Ziah’s voice with the sound of Ilya’s pleasure.

Asra smoothes out the wrinkles in his shirt and looks around for his pashmina scarf. It had landed on Ilya’s dresser, spread out over the top of it, over the clutter of papers and quills and capped inkpots.

He needs to get back to his research, anyway. His parents’ grimoire had information about the in-between worlds, but Ziah had a whole collection of arcane knowledge in her books, and he hasn’t finished poring over the ruby grimoire yet. She’d been so wary of it—it _has_ to have what he was looking for. He just hasn’t found it yet.

He grabs his pink scarf, and underneath it is a pile of medical sketches. Asra picks them up, straightening them into a neat pile, and glances down at a pile of letters that had been underneath the sketches, tied together by a thin leather cord.

Hmm. He’d mentioned a family—maybe these were from them? Bad form, if he wasn’t writing them back. Something to tease him about later, just to see him blush.

He puts on the scarf, draping it over his head and arm, letting it settle diagonally over his body. He rolls his shoulders, then takes the sketches, shuffling and rearranging them until they’re all in one neat pile rather than the haphazard stack Ilya’d originally had. He sets the sketches down and grabs the bundle of letters, turning them until they’re parallel to each other. A little piece of organization amidst the chaos and clutter. He steps back, satisfied, and turns toward the door, lifting his hand to run it through his hair.

His fingers smell faintly of peppermint and rosemary, and he goes very, very still.

After a long moment, he holds his fingers to his nose, inhaling deeply. It’s faint, but undeniable, and his mouth goes dry. Though he’s staring at the door, he’s pulled through time, sitting behind her at the vanity, his fingers weaving thick strands of wet blue hair into a tight braid. She always used peppermint and rosemary oils in the bath, and the scent of it would cling to his fingers for hours and hours, long after her hair had dried and their weekly intimacy passed.

 _Clarity of mind and concentration_ , she’d told him, when he asked. _Also, it smells nice._

A lump wells in his throat, and his chest is suddenly very, very tight.

Slowly, he looks over his shoulder, toward Ilya—but Ilya’s fallen asleep again, passed out face-down in the pillow, snoring deeply. His arm is draped over the edge of the mattress, like he’d reached out toward him at some point, though Asra hadn’t noticed.

He swallows, clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth ache. He wants to walk over to the bed and shake him awake, hold the letters in front of him and demand an explanation—and isn’t _that_ an Ilya way to solve problems, just swaggering up and demanding answers like he’s owed them.

It takes only a moment; the decision is made before he even realizes he’d done it, before he realizes he hadn’t even considered it. He turns again, returning to the dresser, and he takes the stack of letters. He tugs the first letter free and, placing the stack back on the dresser, he unfolds it.

Ziah’s handwriting stares back at him, so familiar it aches. It takes him a moment to register she’s written this letter in Nahuṣan, the language of her people—a language she had taught him at his request, side-by-side with Prakran, because those had been the only two languages she’d used to write her grimoires.

It’s been so long, the sight of it makes him ache. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, behind his knees, in his stomach—throbbing like a livid bruise, freshly inflicted after what he’d thought were several fairly good days.

The letter is addressed to him.

 _Sweet,_ he reads, and his breath catches. Eyes burning, he looks up, biting on his wrist instinctively, and looks over at Ilya, still deeply asleep. He doesn’t want Ilya to see him like this. He doesn’t want to be in the same room with Ilya, if it turns out he’d kept her letters from him.

He folds up the letter, and returns it to the stack of other letters. He tucks the pile inside his scarf, against his heart, and leaves the room in silence. He makes for the garden, for the willow tree, where they had first met, where he’d carved her name into its bark, his hands still bloody from digging, his tongue stinging with seasalt. It’s the only place her memory haunts him in the palace—it’s the only place suitable for reading her letters, other than the shop.

And the shop, empty and barren of everything but memories, is someplace he can’t go, not again. He hadn’t been able to bear the emptiness of it, the silence. Hadn’t been able to look at Tiamat’s dry fountain without remembering the days it ran. Hadn’t been able to sit in the garden without recalling her sitting on the sofa under the pergola, playing the kalimba, or letting him lean against her shoulder on bad nights. Hadn’t been able to sleep in their bed without the sound of her soft breaths, or the feel of her warmth against his chest.

The longing hasn’t softened with time—it’s only grown sharper. He can’t bear the bruises her ghost inflicts on him, but he can’t bear to heal them, either.

His exhale is ragged, and he closes his eyes, fighting his faint, mirthless smile. He presses his fingers into his eyes, breathing in and out again and again, just as she’d taught him. _Balance,_ he thinks. _In all things there must be balance._

Fuck, he can almost hear her voice. He _can_ hear her voice, if he closes his eyes and focuses.

He reels himself back from that brink—a brink he’s tumbled over, multiple times, since Muriel carried him from the ash-stained beaches of the Lazaret—and refocuses. Instead of thinking about her, he thinks of Ilya, and the fact that he had never mentioned that he’d known Ziah.

On some level, he knows that it’s unfair to resent him for his silence. Asra himself has never breathed a word about Ziah, except in the vaguest of terms; Ilya has no reason to believe Ziah knows him, or he her—and yet he has her letters. Letters that were meant for Asra.

If Ilya had known the letters were for Asra, he would’ve given them to him. Surely, he would’ve given them to him. Ilya isn’t Asra. He isn’t needlessly cruel. But maybe—maybe not.

Maybe Ilya’s as capable of cruelty as Asra is, as Ziah had been.

_Fuck._

He tries to breathe as he steps out onto the veranda, dragging cool morning air through his nose and into his lungs. But his chest is tight, too-tight, tight enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s getting any air even though he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. He pulls the letters from his scarf as he rushes down the stairs, thumbing through them again just to smell her again.

Peppermint and rosemary, the scent of her pillow—her hair, unbound, spread around her like waves of the ocean—her perfume lingering in the air even minutes after she’d gone downstairs, as he stacked dishes and put them in the sink—his chin on her shoulder, his nose against the nape of her neck, as she let him hold her and breathe her in—

He uses a portal he’d woven near the front of the maze, not caring about who might see. He steps out behind the willow, steadying himself with one hand, gripping the stack of letters with the other. He rounds the willow, concealed by its swaying branches, and falls to his knees before her name.

With a shaking hand, he reaches out and traces each jagged letter, gouged white into the bark of the tree. He remembers the splinters in his hands from carving, remembers the ash and flecked blood that lingered under his fingernails even though he’d washed his hands a dozen times.

Exhaling hard, he leans forward, resting his forehead against her name.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

The universe doesn’t answer him. It never does—he should stop being surprised. He exhales again, inhales, repeats again and again _(balance)_ before he turns, resting his back against the scar that forms her name. He unwinds the leather cord with trembling fingers, and opens the first letter.

 _Sweet,_ he reads, and his throat closes. It’s like trying to breathe with ash in his lungs, with glass shards in his throat. He looks up at the swaying willow fronds, blinking hard, because he doesn’t trust himself enough to read _sweet_ without falling apart.

Even here, nothing left of her but ash and ink, she haunts him.

After several long moments, he looks back down at the letter, tracing his fingertips over her handwriting.

_Sweet,_

_This will be the last of my letters to you._

Asra bites his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain in his chest is so acute he’s breathless. Everywhere he looks, she is there, either as a memory or as figments of his helplessly yearning imagination. He’d seen a Prakran tourist with braided blue hair in the market the other day and nearly had a heart attack.

(Would it ever stop? The longing?)

(Did he want it to?)

It is a long, long time before he can bring himself to open his eyes again and keep reading.

_I have written you many others, but Julian is transferring to the Palace by order of Count Lucio himself. I am entrusting this letter, and my others, to his care. He is to deliver them to you, as soon as he is able._

Asra’s laugh cracks out of him, and he covers his eyes, taking a deep, slow breath, trying to push down the growing anger, warming in the pit of his stomach.

_I can feel the plague within me. I wished to send these to you while I still have coherence. I am sorry for my distance; you have always deserved better than me. When I am gone —_

And there, he covers his mouth with his hand, gripping his jaw until his fingers ache.

_I know I am presumptuous, that I have no right to ask this of you, not after how I have treated you — but I want you to do one thing for me. I know your grief will, perhaps, feel like a terrible darkness — an endless winter of despair. Please look for moments of spring. The wheel of fortune is ever turning; the world moves on, and you will, too, so long as you let yourself heal. Do not submerge yourself in an ocean of grief, as I did: find what makes you breathe, what brightens your days, and the winter will thaw._

_Julian is leaving soon, so I will say this in parting:_

_I am sorry, though I know it means little, as I will be gone when you read this. You have been my greatest joy, and my love._

_Your Mizi_

Asra sobs, feeling his tears wet the top of his hand, still pressed against his mouth. His breath hitches, hiccups, and he sets the letters aside so his tears won’t stain the ink or paper. He doesn’t want to destroy the last thing he has of her.

He hears something soft gliding over grass, and looks over to see Faust slithering toward him, body shaded underneath the willow fronds. Shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing his tears, he reaches out, letting her glide onto his arm and up his bicep, curling around his shoulders.

 _Here,_ she says, pressing her nose to his cheek.

He laughs, though the sound is rough and ugly. He wipes at his eyes again and sniffles, offering a weak smile. “That bad, huh?” he teases, voice hoarse. “Sorry.”

 _No,_ Faust says, earnestly encouraging. _No sorry! Here now._

Asra closes his eyes, and Faust rests her jaw on the crown of his head, radiating comfort. He reaches up, and feels her rub against his fingers. “Thanks, Faust,” he rasps. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 _Here,_ Faust says, and he forces a smile, reaching for the second letter. In the top right corner is the label, in Ziah’s careful, elegant hand, _Day 17._

_A.,_

_I write this letter to you on the southern beach of the Lazaret. I escaped the building itself, and found an abandoned hut deeper into the islet—I suspect it is from when the fishing village still stood. The doctors spent two weeks looking for me, though their efforts were unsuccessful. A doctor named Julian Devorak found me through complete accident, but I am growing fond of him; it was he who brought paper and ink to me so I may write this to you._

_No doubt you have discovered my lie by now: that the blood I used in the shop was pig’s blood; that the attack never happened. I long to speak to you again, to see your face once more, but I am afraid of what you will ask me. I am afraid to give you the answers you no doubt want. I am afraid to see your disappointment, when you realize I lied to you._

_When you told me you had never thought me a coward, those months ago… I suppose I have done much since then to disabuse you of that notion._

Asra swallows, hard.

_So I have resolved to write you letters, instead of speaking to you face-to-face. It is the best compromise I can think of. When I return to you, it is my dearest hope that they will offer you some comfort, and some answers._

He squeezes his aching eyes shut, massaging them with his fingers, and exhales, long and slow. After a moment, he blinks, looks down, and keeps reading.

—   —   —

They’re love letters.

All of them. In some way or form—even if it’s just a throwaway phrase _(“I watched the sunrise today, and I thought of your warmth”)_ —every single letter is a love letter.

Asra doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

—   —   —

It is late afternoon when he hears Ilya’s footsteps in the maze. He’s in the middle of reading her sixty-third letter—the only letter that spans more than one front-and-back page, her account of her life—when Faust perks up, and a raven caws.

“Where is he?” Ilya mutters, and though his voice is faint, Asra has trained himself to listen as well as Ziah once had. “Where _is_ he, damn it—if he’s not here, not in his room, not in the library—”

 _Squeeze?_ Faust asks, as Asra begins to gather up Ziah’s letters with shaking hands.

“Not this time, Faust,” he says, eyes narrowing. He ties the letters together and puts them in his sash, since he doesn’t have his bag with him. After a moment, he wipes at his eyes again and sniffles, pressing his nose against his shirtsleeve. He rubs at the bite mark on his wrist, raw and inflamed, and steps out from underneath the swaying branches of the willow tree with what feels like a stone in his gut.

She’d wanted the letters to be cathartic, he suspects, but the pain had only worsened with every word he’d read—and hardened his determination.

Briefly, as he listens to Ilya attempt to navigate the garden maze, he wonders if he should leave. He doesn’t want to see Ilya’s face ever again. Worse, as he feels the letters against his chest and thinks of Ilya having them for the _months_ that Ziah has been gone, all he feels is a great, growing anger.

If he sees Ilya again—

He doesn’t trust himself not to scream at him. Not to say terrible, awful things he might (or might not) regret the next day. He doesn’t know the whole truth of why Ilya kept the letters from him, and he doesn’t trust himself not to jump to conclusions.

Seeing Ilya right now would just make everything worse.

“Let’s go, Faust,” he says. He leaves the garden, walking to the other side of the hedge maze. He sees a flash of black and red, hears Ilya call his name—anger and determination, and worry, _why is he worried if he doesn’t have anything to hide?_ —but closes the two open ends of the hedge behind him before Ilya can reach him.

Ilya is still furiously calling after him when he slips through a self-made portal to Nadia’s wing.

—   —   —

He opens his eyes to sunlight, and warmth, and the soft strains of jazz coming from the phonograph downstairs.

Ziah is humming along.

_(No, please. Please, I’m not ready.)_

A lump wells in his throat, and he turns over, eyes open and staring at the clouds painted on the plaster between the wooden beams supporting the attic ceiling. He inhales, deeply, and the scents of peppermint and rosemary burn his nostrils, fill his lungs to bursting. His eyes sting, and he swallows thickly, keeping his eyes on the painted clouds while he hesitantly reaches out behind him.

Warm fingers clasp his, and he turns to see Ziah in her pajamas, her hair wrapped in a towel in the old Prakran style. She smiles at him and leans down, stretching herself out at his side, until her shins brush his toes and her nose is against his cheek, her hand over his heart. Faust slides over the curve of her bare shoulder, draping herself across the both of them.

Asra swallows again, and lifts his hand, brushing his fingers over her cheek. She turns into his touch with a smile, and then rolls herself onto her forearms, leaning over him. Asra reaches up, tugging at the towel until it unravels, and her wet hair spills over her shoulder, onto his chest, blocking out the clouds. He’s surrounded by her, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Is it possible to stay in a dream forever? Is it possible to build his own world with her, and forget everything else? If it was, he’d take it in a heartbeat. He’d want for nothing else—wouldn’t dare to _ask_ —if she was with him again.

Her thumb brushes his cheek, and he realizes he’s crying. He gasps, relief filling his too-tight lungs, and he reaches up, burying his fingers in the damp mass of her hair. When he kisses her, she kisses him back, slinging a leg over his hips and settling over him, her hair falling in two waterfalls—spilling over his fingers, wreathing his head, blocking out the rest of the world.

All the world is her.

Nothing else matters.

“I’ll bring you back,” he promises, when the kiss breaks, leaving him panting. He stares into her eyes, and thinks of the full moon, high in the night sky, surrounded by stars. He swallows, thickly, fighting the lace of tears threatening to spill over his lids and down his cheeks. “I’ll bring you back, Mizi.”

Ziah kisses him, fiercely, her hands smoothing over his shoulders and tightening. For a blinding, beautiful moment, he hopes she’ll bruise him. He hopes he’ll wake up with fingerprints on his skin—he hopes he’ll have a sign this was real.

Ziah pulls away, resting her forehead against his, and he pulls his hands from her hair to frame her face. She kisses his palm, and he clenches his jaw until it aches.

“You should not think of the dead so often,” she tells him, “lest your mind become a graveyard.”

“As if it isn’t already,” he murmurs. “And you’re not dead, not really. Just somewhere I can’t follow yet.”

Her mouth quirks up, and his heart thrills. He’s missed that, the sight of her smile—hasn’t seen it in months—and it’s enough to make his heart ache, enough to make the tears spill from the corners of his eyes to run down his temples, into the pillow under his head.

“And how wondrous it will be, when you follow me and bring me back,” she says. “Though I have my doubts. It has never been done before, you know. Only in tales meant for gods and heroes.”

“I’ll do it,” he promises, delirious on the scent of her. “I’ll do it for you—”

Her eyes gleam, the corners crinkling as her smile deepens, still hiding her beautiful teeth. “You would bring me back from the dead for _me?_ ”

“For _us,_ ” he corrects. “You loved me, you said in your letters—”

“Such devotion,” she teases, rewarding him with a kiss. When he lifts his head to chase her, she presses a finger to his mouth, and he kisses its pad, keeping his eyes on her face, charting the freckles dusted over her brown skin, the black freckles on her left cheek. “I wonder, if I wished for a blade of grass from the greenlands, across the world? Would you—”

“I’d get it,” he promises, and she kisses him again, a teasing peck. “I’d walk the world over to fetch it—”

She laughs. “And if I longed for a shell at the bottom of the ocean—”

“I’d swim to the bottom for you,” he vows. “Every time.”

He rolls them over, so she is on her back and he is above her. Faust is gone. His world is the sunlight in their room—the softness of her body against his—the scent of peppermint and rosemary clinging to his fingers—

Ziah frames his face between her soft palms, and Asra swallows. Her thumb brushes against his cheek, presses against his jumping pulse in his throat.

“Would you set yourself ablaze to keep me warm?” she asks, very softly.

That catches him off-guard, but he doesn’t even have to think about it. Mouth dry, he admits, “I’d give you anything. Whatever you wanted—whatever you needed. All you’d have to do is ask.”

Ziah says nothing, but she doesn’t withhold from him her touch. Asra swallows hard, lowering his head to rest his forehead against hers, his hands leaving her face to rest on her waist, thumb stroking the crease of skin dividing her ribs and waist, squeezing the soft roundness of her torso. She lifts her legs, wrapping them around his hips, and drapes her arms around his neck, fingers drawing aimless patterns over the tops of his shoulders. Her hair is spread out over the pillows, a thousand little gleaming rivers of blue.

“You’re everything,” Asra whispers.

“Yes,” Ziah says. “As you became everything to me, in time.”

“How can you ask me to look for moments of spring?” he asks, desperation bleeding into the rough edges of his voice. “How can you ask me to move on without you—”

“You wish to live in an endless winter of despair?” she asks him.

Asra can’t say anything to that. He hangs his head, slowly stretching himself out to press at her side, mimicking her earlier pose. She keeps her arms around him, and he rests his head over her heart, listening to its steady _(living)_ beat.

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” she replies. She sighs and lifts her head, stretching her neck to kiss his cheek. “Be kind to Ilya. He has so little kindness in his life, these days.”

“Ilya falls in love with kindness,” Asra says, rolling his eyes. “He’d love a wall if it was nice to him for a few days.”

“I fell in love with your kindness,” Ziah reminds him, and when he opens his mouth to protest— _no, you’re different, you’re not like Ilya at all_ —she touches her fingertips to his lips. He can feel the satin of Nadia’s bedsheets against his cheek.

“Don’t go,” he whispers. “I’m not ready.”

“Neither am I,” she whispers back. “I will stay a little longer, then.”

They stay cuddled together until the dream fades away, until his eyes flutter open and look at a deep purple canopy instead of the painted plaster of the attic ceiling, charmed to show the night sky once darkness fell.

He looks over at Nadia’s sleeping form, tucked away under the sheets, her hair draped over her body. He’d braided her hair at her request, interwoven it with magic to keep it from unraveling, but the tyrian hues of her hair looks blue in the moonlight.

Nauseous, Asra gets out of bed, going to the where he’d left his pashmina and Faust. Faust is still sleeping, so deeply asleep she barely stirs when he picks her up and deposits her across his shoulders. He goes to the garden, finding a portal near the lemonstone door, one that takes him straight to the interior of the library. It’s locked and dark, empty of everyone except him and Faust.

Without a word, he sets Faust down in the nest of pillows he’d made when he first got to the palace, and starts researching ghosts.


End file.
